


Emancipation of a tree

by Kitacular



Series: More than Brothers [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BAMF Aramis, BAMF Porthos, BDSM, Boys In Love, Dom/sub, Flashbacks, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 72,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8200799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitacular/pseuds/Kitacular
Summary: Porthos and Aramis have a well-established D/s relationship but when someone discovers it, they think it's less than healthy and decide to take action. This is not my normal romantic D/s stuff. This isn't a nice fic. You've been warned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jasperslittlesister (jasperslittlesister)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasperslittlesister/gifts).



> "Emancipation from the bondage of the soil is no freedom for the tree." ~ Rabindranath Tagore
> 
> Also I got a lot of positive feedback on the d'Artagnan/Athos relationship I built in my last work but it isn't really featured in this one, apart from background. This is pure Porthamis whump. Please read the warnings. Things get a bit graphic.
> 
> This was a request from Jasperslittlesister several months ago (I DO eventually get to requests and prompts, honest!) that someone grew concerned about the nature of Porthos and Aramis' relationship and decided to take action. I asked her how severe she wanted that action to be and she kind of... left it to me. It appears I'm a little bit evil.
> 
> You have been warned.

The second Porthos closed the door behind him, his back was pressed up against it by Aramis who began to kiss him forcefully. He gave a muffled cry of surprise before his arms came up around Aramis, pulling him close and returning the kiss eagerly. Aramis moaned softly and the kiss turned to something hot and messy. It was all lips and teeth and tongues and Aramis couldn't stop himself grinding against Porthos, pressing him more firmly back against the door. The larger man growled in approval when Aramis' tongue began to turn aggressive, pushing its way into his mouth, exploring and claiming as it went.

Suddenly Aramis broke the kiss, panting heavily. Porthos leaned back against the door, staring hungrily at Aramis who had gently extricated himself from Porthos' embrace.

“We have two and a half days off,” Aramis said, raking his eyes up and down Porthos. “Undress,” he added.

Porthos did so quickly, feeling butterflies beginning at the predatory look in Aramis' eye.

“That means three nights and two whole days of recovery,” Aramis continued.

While Porthos was stripping off entirely, Aramis only stripped as far as removing his coat.

“Recovery, Sire?” Porthos asked, his excited nerves increasing as Aramis simply stood with hands on his hips while Porthos was down to just his braies.

“Mhmm. Recovery. Them too,” he said, gesturing for Porthos to remove his underwear.

Once he'd complied, Aramis walked to their big, wide, wooden table and removed the few bits of parchment on it. Porthos dutifully trailed behind him. He pointed at the floor beside the table and Porthos slid gracefully to his knees.

“It's rare that we have so long off,” Aramis said as he walked to the bureau against the wall. He reached behind it for a hidden key and unlocked the bottom drawer.

Porthos lost sight of him but listened to the familiar noises, recognising with a surge of pure desire where Aramis was. His stomach gave a lurch of nerves as he heard Aramis pulling their set of chains out. He only used them when he was going to take Porthos to the point of really needing to struggle.

“So I thought I'd take advantage of it,” Aramis continued lightly. “Perhaps do some things you might need time to heal from.”

Porthos felt the familiar prickling heat of anticipation, excitement, arousal and pure fear when Aramis stepped back into his eye line, cane in hand.

  
  


  
  


Porthos' throat was hoarse from bellowing into the cloth gag and he slumped down against the table in exhaustion. His wrists were throbbing from pulling on the shackles. Sweat covered his face and his back and when Aramis crouched beside his head, he leaned forwards, trying hard to seek contact against him.

Aramis smiled affectionately and edged closer, letting Porthos rest his head on his shoulder, feeling him nuzzle in the crook of his neck.

“You're so good. So perfect. I love you so much, mi vida,” he crooned, stroking the dark curls. He tilted his head sideways to rest upon Porthos' as he continued to murmur his praise.

Once Porthos had calmed, Aramis pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead and removed the gag. Porthos gladly took a long drink from the proffered water skin before Aramis kissed him deeply.

“Five more,” he said softly and got to his feet when Porthos nodded. He surveyed the body stretched out on the table. The high, well muscled, solid cheeks of his arse were covered in deep, purple welts from the cane. The backs of his thighs were well decorated as well, small pairs of stripes covering the skin up and down. He tilted his head and surveyed the skin with the eye of a surgeon.

Porthos knew Aramis' last strikes were always the worst and so he braced himself. He heard the whistle of the cane seconds before a white hot line of pain exploded across his buttocks. He couldn't stop himself shouting in pain and it was long, long seconds before he settled back against the table. The second strike felt like a branding iron was laid across him and he roared, the chains clanking as all four of his limbs yanked hard on them.

Aramis narrowed his eyes and took careful aim, laying the third, savage blow across the back of his thighs, in between two other sets of strikes, hitting untouched flesh. Porthos' shout echoed around the room and this time, when he finally relaxed, his breath was coming in heavy shudders. A fourth blow, directly on the crease between buttocks and thighs, had Porthos thrashing on the table, the wood of the table legs creaking as Porthos' strength made the metal cut into them.

Aramis didn't wait until Porthos had fully calmed, simply waiting until his body had stilled. He was still shuddering heavily when Aramis struck for the fifth and final time.

Porthos bellowed loudly for a second before his voice broke entirely and he began to sob. His entire body was shaking with the force of emotion and when Aramis again crouched by his head, Porthos simply wept into his neck.

“Oh my good boy. My sweet, perfect, boy. Eres mi vida. I love you so much,” Aramis whispered, stroking Porthos' hair again.

“Love you Master,” Porthos whispered between sobs.

“I know, I know. I love you too. You're so brave, so strong, so perfect,” Aramis whispered, keeping up the string of praise and endearments while Porthos simply let the adrenaline wash over him.

It was rare he took Porthos this far since it took so much out of them both. Few people in the world understood the relief or the appeal that came from being beaten until tears. It was one of the only times Porthos could simply 'be'. He didn't need to think, to act, to fight... Just to belong to Aramis. Porthos loved the pain, relished the pain, liked to go this far but it wasn't often they could. He could feel Porthos' tears soaking the collar of shirt and he sighed peacefully.

Aramis' thighs were just beginning to hurt from his squatting position when he felt Porthos stirring, small kisses being pressed to the column of his throat.

“You OK, mi vida?” he whispered, cradling Porthos' tear stained face.

“Oh yes, Master. Very OK. Very thanks. Very love you,” Porthos mumbled.

Aramis smiled and kissed his forehead. The words might be nonsense but the sentiment was there.

“Ready to get up?” he whispered, smiling when Porthos nodded. Slowly and carefully, Aramis undid the manacles from his limbs and, supporting Porthos' weight, they slowly made their way to bed.

They were so wrapped up in each other that neither man heard the footsteps on the stairs or saw the woman leaving their building.

  
  


 

 

Flea stormed into her home in the Court of Miracles and slammed the door behind her. She stared angrily around the room, itching to throw something but nothing was to hand.

She'd only gone there to apologise to him, to tell him everything was square, to try and remain friends. She'd managed to get the people of the court to respect her enough to let her lead them and wanted to share that with Porthos. She'd wanted to keep Porthos as a friend. She threw herself face down onto her bed and screamed into the thin mattress.

How could he **do** that to Porthos? She'd heard enough cane strikes in her time to recognise it and she heard those chains. They were nothing compared to his cries of pain... Just remembering the way he'd roared made the hairs stand up on her arms.

She wasn't unaware that people did that sort of thing. Hell, she was aware that Porthos did it. He used to do it when they were together. She'd seen the wounds on his back when they'd gone too far. She assumed he'd gotten past it when it seemed to stop but now... It seemed he'd just fallen in with someone who wanted to hurt him anyway.

No. They couldn't. Porthos needed saving, even if from himself. She needed to get Porthos away from that Musketeer.

She turned onto her back and stared angrily up at the ceiling. She needed a plan and needed one soon.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers need a favour from a rather sore Porthos.

 

“I know you're in there,” d'Artagnan shouted, hammering on the door. There was still no reply. “I have Athos with me and he's brought his key,” he added.

The threat worked because a few minutes later a very dishevelled looking Aramis opened the door, clad only in his underwear.

“It's the middle of the night,” Aramis said, glowering at d'Artagnan and casting a look at Athos who was leaning casually against the wall.

“It's an hour before dawn,” d'Artagnan corrected, brightly.

“It's sleep time,” Aramis said, narrowing his eyes.

“There's work to be done,” Athos said quietly.

“It's our day off,” Aramis protested.

Athos pushed off the wall and walked past the pouting man into Aramis and Porthos' home.

“Athos,” Aramis whined, stepping back and gesturing for d'Artagnan to enter as well.

Athos, however, was already kicking his boots off and making his way to his customary seat on the sofa. D'Artagnan hastened to follow, remembering at the last second to remove his boots before stepping on Aramis' precious rug. Nobody survived doing that.

Aramis cast a reluctant eye to the bedroom and back at Athos who simply nodded. He sighed dramatically and disappeared to collect Porthos.

D'Artagnan looked around him while they waited and aside from the clothes hastily scraped into a pile, he noticed the bottom drawer of their bureau was open. He cast a glance over its contents and felt his face heat almost instantly, recognising various methods of bondage and means of causing pain. He quickly looked away and found Athos watching him with a smirk.

“See anything you like?” he asked.

“Athos!” he exclaimed.

Athos simply raised an eyebrow and d'Artagnan chuckled, shaking his head ruefully.

“Perhaps we'll ask them to do a little show and tell some other time,” Athos suggested.

“Perhaps,” d'Artagnan murmured, trying to look anywhere else than at Athos or those... items.

“Someone want to explain to me why the fuck I'm awake in the middle of the bloody night on my sodding day off?” came an angry growl.

D'Artagnan's head whipped round to see Porthos and Aramis making their way to the living room. There was something in Porthos' gait that suggested discomfort. Perhaps he'd pulled a muscle.

“Are you OK?” he asked, frowning.

“I'm fine. Get off the sofa,” Porthos grunted.

Athos' hand closed around d'Artagnan's wrist, tugging him gently off the sofa. Athos settled in the armchair Porthos normally occupied and tugged on d'Artagnan's wrist until he sat on the floor. Porthos flopped heavily onto the sofa, laying on his stomach. D'Artagnan looked up at Athos in concern but was startled to see him shaking his head, a small smile on his face.

“Right, then. What do you want?” asked Aramis, taking his own seat and tucking his legs up under him.

“Our patrol was attacked tonight,” Athos explained. “No fatalities but for one of the attackers. They were from the Court of Miracles.”

“So?” Aramis asked.

“So we need to go and ask them why they'd attack Musketeers like that. Have you ever heard of them picking a fight with soldiers before?” Athos asked.

“No... And because they'll never let any of us in, you need Porthos to go in our stead and ask them?” sighed Aramis, admitting defeat.

Athos nodded and Aramis glanced at Porthos who rolled his eyes in return.

“Fine,” Aramis sighed.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Later that morning Aramis was watching with a frown as Porthos dressed carefully. The rough fabric brushing over his sore and bruised skin was more than slightly painful but he couldn't help it sending small bolts of desire through him. Aramis, on the other hand, was feeling rather guilty for going so far.

“Oh knock it off,” Porthos said as they strolled into the yard, tired of the worried little looks Aramis was throwing him. “I'm not injured, just tender.”

“I went too far,” Aramis replied, biting his lip.

“For a normal night, yeah. We thought we weren't back until Friday. By tonight you know I'll be no more than a bit sore,” Porthos said and bumped him with his shoulder.

By the time they'd mounted their horses and ridden to the entrance of the Court of Miracles, however, sweat was beginning to form on Porthos' forehead and he grimaced when he dismounted.

“Are you going to be OK?” Aramis asked.

“I am... As long as I don't have to sit down,” Porthos replied, grinning. He removed his pauldron and handed it to Aramis.

“Mi sol,” he whispered, glancing around to check nobody was in ear shot.

“Mi vida,” Aramis replied, holding the pauldron close to his chest.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Porthos strolled through the court, nodding to people he recognised, glaring at anyone who gave him a dirty look. It was only a few months since he'd been here last and since he'd been part of the group that had saved the settlement those who did recognise him, left him alone.

He rolled his neck comfortably and made his way unerringly to their makeshift throne room.

“What's your business here?” the man on the door barked as Porthos approached.

“I need to speak to the person runnin' fings 'ere,” Porthos said.

“Yeah? Why's that?”

“I've gotta talk to 'im about something,” Porthos replied, pulling his gloves on more securely.

“Yeah and I gotta talk to the Cardinal about summit but you don't see me just walking into the Louvre,” the man said, dismissively.

Porthos smirked.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Flea turned suddenly at a great crashing noise to see the doors being kicked open and her guard thrown to the floor at her feet.

“Porthos,” she said, smiling. “You do like to make an entrance.”

“Apparently I've walked into a palace without invitation,” he said loudly.

Flea held her hand up to stop the men around her rushing towards Porthos.

“And what brings you here?” she asked.

“Bunch of men from 'ere attacked a group of Musketeers last night. Why?” he said, getting straight to the point.

“I've no idea. How are you, Porthos?”

“It was an organised attack, Flea. Seeking out Musketeers. You know what we did for you guys,” Porthos said.

Flea waved the others in the room away with her hand and stepped closer to Porthos.

“Is that really why you're here? Didn't just come back for me?”

“That's really why I'm here,” Porthos said, stepping backwards.

Flea narrowed her eyes at him.

“Is there someone else? Are you in love with someone? Is that why you're suddenly too good for me?” she asked, sharply.

“What's up your arse?” Porthos asked. “I'm here on business, Flea.”

“What makes you think I know anything about them? You know I'd help you if I could. I will always help you, Porthos. Even when you don't know you need it,” she said fiercely.

“That group of men were too organised and too prepared to be random street thugs,” Porthos said, ignoring the second half of her speech.

“I'll ask around and let you know if I hear anything,” Flea said, turning her back on him.

Porthos rolled his eyes and walked out, quickly returning to Aramis' side.

“Bloody waste of time,” Porthos grumbled, holding his hand out for his pauldron.

“Doesn't know anything, didn't see anything, will ask around?” Aramis guessed.

“Yep,” Porthos replied. "Got it in one."

Aramis stepped closer and searched Porthos' face.

“What is it?”

“Flea. She's in charge here. I don't believe for a second she doesn't know,” Porthos answered, redoing his pauldron.

Aramis rested his fingers on the small of Porthos' back.

“Weird,” he said, shrugging. “How are you feeling anyway?”

“Very sore,” Porthos answered with a grin.

“The quicker we get back and tell Tréville, the quicker we can go home,” Aramis said firmly.

“And I can take my fucking clothes off,” Porthos murmured quietly.

“I always want to take your fucking clothes off,” Aramis said in a whisper.

Porthos laughed, his big booming laugh echoing around the alley.

  
  


  
  


Flea watched from the scaffold as Porthos reached his 'friend' and started putting that bloody Musketeer symbol back on. The black haired man stepped closer to him and his hand rested on Porthos' tail bone. They shared a comment and Porthos laughed. How could he laugh with someone so soon after he'd injured him? She narrowed her eyes and saw the wince on Porthos' face as he mounted his horse.

No. He was never going to be safe with that man. Flea was going to have to take drastic action. She turned away from the Musketeers and rushed to find the men she needed.  
  


  
  


  
  


Aramis strolled out of the garrison, humming to himself. Their leave might have been slightly interrupted but they were on their way, now. Porthos was giving a quick report to Tréville and then heading home. Aramis had decided to head to the market to get some meat for dinner before meeting him there. However much they were smiling at each other, he knew Porthos was uncomfortable so he strolled to the market by himself.

He was still humming to himself as he got home, bounding up the stairs to their chambers two at a time. He opened the door and glanced around, expecting Porthos to be on the sofa.

“Porthos,” he called.

There was no answer. Aramis frowned and glanced at the stands in the corner of the room. Porthos' hat and weapons were all hung up. Where was he, then? Aramis spied Porthos' headscarf on the table and strode to it quickly, seeing another piece of cloth beside it.

It was a canvas hood, worn only by those in the court. Aramis felt his blood run cold but within seconds it began to boil and he turned and ran from the room.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers react to Porthos' abduction

“How do you occupy your mind?” d'Artagnan whispered.

Athos flicked his eyes sideways to the fidgeting Gascon.

“Stand still,” Athos hissed, barely moving his lips.

D'Artagnan straightened back up and watched the court proceedings.

This was the worst thing about being a solider. The boredom. They were stood right at the back of the room, by the door. It wasn't so bad being beside the King or even suffering the Cardinal because you could hear what was going on. Back here it was just a low mumble of voices while he was expected to stand there in silence and not let his mind go to sleep.

“Still,” Athos hissed again.

“My mind keeps drifting,” d'Artagnan hissed back.

“Practice keeping your emotions under control,” Athos murmured.

After less than a minute, d'Artagnan huffed in exasperation and Athos turned his head to to scold him but the words died in his throat. Looking past d'Artagnan, out the door of the council chamber, he could see down the length of this wing of the palace and his sharp eyes could just make out Aramis scuffling with some red guards, his blue sash easily identifiable even from this distance.

He took a few steps forwards and touched one of the other Musketeers on the shoulder.

“They're nearly done. I have something I need to attend to. Please give my apologies should my absence be noted,” he murmured softly. The Musketeer nodded and Athos withdrew, taking d'Artagnan with him.

He strode quickly down the corridor, reaching Aramis just in time to prevent him from drawing his sword against the three red guards guarding the palace door.

“What is this?” he asked sharply.

“You Musketeers think this is your private garrison,” snapped one of the guards.

“I don't want **in** the fucking palace,” snarled Aramis. “I just want to talk to **them**.”

Athos frowned at Aramis' harsh words. He wasn't one to swear very often, even at their rival regiment. He lifted his chin and swept past, ignoring the call of the red guards behind him.

As soon as they were out of sight of the guards, Athos stopped and slammed Aramis against a wall.

“What is it?” he asked, sharply.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


“Porthos has been kidnapped?” Captain Tréville asked, standing suddenly.

“Yes Captain,” Athos said.

“Why would they take Porthos?” Tréville asked.

“He refused to stay last time. Maybe they want him to this time,” d'Artagnan suggested.

“I fail to believe he would ever do such a thing,” the Captain said, shaking his head.

“So do I, Captain. But if they think he will... Without that Charon person, they might need him to steer the ship, as it were,” d'Artagnan said.

“Well they can't have him,” Tréville snapped. “Where's Aramis now?”

“He's gone home, Captain. Porthos' weapons were left behind but the door was locked. He was going to calm himself down and see if he could find any other clues,” Athos said quietly.

“Good idea,” Tréville said, nodding. “We need as much information as possible before we do anything rash.”

  
  


  
  


 

 

Aramis eased his way down the corridor in the Court of Miracles, remembering the way from their last visit. He'd left his uniform behind and covered his shirt and breeches in an old cloak. He was, however, still fully armed. He used one hand to keep the cloak closed and the other was holding his arquebus steady beneath its folds.

A few feet ahead he could see the door he was looking for. Only one man on guard. Good. He heard footsteps behind him and turned, seeing two men striding towards him, pistols drawn.

“Musketeer!” one of them shouted.

Within seconds Aramis had cast the cloak off, raised his pistol and fired. He swung his arquebus up on its baldric and slammed it into the other man's face. He ripped the pistol from its previous owner and turned to fire on the man guarding the door.

Pulling another pistol from the first fallen man, he fired immediately. He then threw the firearm itself, knocking another man to the ground. Seeing another group of four men coming out of the main chamber, Aramis drew his sword. Another two followed and Aramis drew his knife from the small of his back as well.

He might be outnumbered but Aramis' skill with a sword was well known and easily surpassed these ruffians. He moved as if he were dancing, wasting no motion whatsoever. Their footwork was appalling, he had time to note as he crouched under another clumsy swing. He span on his heel, remaining crouched, and cut the legs out from two men.

He pranced his way back through the mob and did a quick count. Down to three. Not a problem. He darted forwards again and made short work of two but the third managed to sink a knife into his right bicep. Aramis barely grunted with the pain and sank his sword into the man's belly.

Those taken care of, he strode into the main chamber and barely had time to duck when three pistols were levelled at him. Two balls sailed harmlessly over his head but the third hit him in the right thigh and Aramis buckled with the pain, sinking to his knee.

The three men holding the pistols rushed upon him and with tremendous effort, Aramis forced himself upright and quickly carved through two of them, though not with his normal ease and fluidity.

Just as he brought his sword to bear on the third man, the noise of a pistol being cocked sounded behind his head.

Aramis froze.

“Drop them,” a woman said from behind him.

Aramis complied, releasing his blades and letting them clatter to the floor, the sound echoing in the room. The man he'd been about to kill stood and picked up his pistol. Aramis tried to glance over his shoulder at the blonde behind him but the man's pistol connected with his temple and all Aramis knew was black.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Porthos woke with a groan, his head throbbing. Why was he in a bed that didn't smell right? He tried to piece together the last few things he remembered. He and Aramis had left the Court and decided to split up. They'd both been eager to get home and return to their time off and Porthos really was feeling rather sore. He'd gone to give his brief but useless report to Tréville while Aramis went to the market to get some food.

Porthos nodded to himself and immediately regretted it, the pain in his head growing. He'd gotten home first and had been home less than five minutes, only long enough to take his belts off. He hadn't even removed his boots so it must have been even less time than that. There had been a knock at the door and he'd answered it.

Flea. It was Flea. That crazy woman. He'd let her and her two men in, with the promise of information and they'd held that god-damn cloth over his face. Whatever the hell that cloth was soaked with had knocked him out in seconds. He groaned, trying to work through the fog it had left.

His hands went to his hips and he swore under his breath, feeling his weapons missing. Of course, he'd taken them off. Well he wasn't staying in this dump for long. He'd made it clear, he didn't belong here. Shaking the last of the confusion off, Porthos pulled himself to his feet. He took a few careful steps and stretched. No injuries beyond Aramis' handiwork. That was good.

He strode to the door and found it locked. Porthos shrugged, took a single step back and rammed the door with his shoulder. It shook but didn't give way. Porthos repeated the motion and the door shuddered under the onslaught. As he took a step back, ready to try again, the sound of the door unlocking reached him. He fell into a natural crouch, prepared to fight, when three pistols appeared in the doorway.

“Guards? Really?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“You're staying here. Break the door down if you like but we'll just shoot you,” the man in the centre said.

“Where's Flea?” he asked, ignoring the threat.

“She'll be here soon. Why don't you just have a little nap? You must be sleepy,” the man sneered.

Porthos straightened, recognising this wasn't a battle he could win, and the three men withdrew. He heard them lock the door and a bar being put across the door. He clenched his fists at his sides and began to pace.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and Aramis realise the extent of their respective captivities.

The first thing Aramis was aware of was the pain in his leg. He tried to move but it sent a wave of agony through him that nearly made him sick. He forced himself to lay still and took a quick inventory. Deep slash to right arm. Bullet wound in right thigh. Throbbing in his temple. There were metal manacles around his wrists and as he shifted onto his back he heard the clink of a chain.

He opened his eyes and his heart sank. He was underground, that was certain. He was also in some sort of cell, bars visible ahead of him. Was Porthos nearby? Did they have him in one, too? He had to find him. He shook his head to clear the last of the fog, ignoring the throbbing in his temple. No coat. That was weird. He was barefoot, too. Weirder.

At least it wasn't dark. There was a chamber beyond the bars of his cell with a concrete table and an empty arch, presumably leading into a corridor. There was a torch in this chamber burning brightly so at least Aramis could see.

He looked down at his leg and flexed carefully. Sharp spikes of pain shot through him but from what he could tell, the ball had passed straight through. All of his limbs were shaking slightly, presumably from blood loss.

Aramis tugged on the chain to test its strength but a shooting pain ran up and down his right arm so he quickly gave up. The chain was too short from him to stand, even if his leg would hold him, and he felt a great rush of irritation that his captor was trying to keep him on the floor.

Porthos. Where was Porthos? They took him first. It was him they'd wanted, Aramis had just gotten in the way. Aramis hoped with every fibre of his being that Porthos was doing better than he was right now.

The marksman closed his eyes and began praying to every saint he knew for Porthos' safety.  
  


  
  


  
  


Porthos was still pacing angrily when he heard the door opening. Flea stepped through it and looked quite calmly at him. Her guards immediately closed and barred the door and Porthos clenched his hands at his sides.

“Hello Porthos,” she said gently, removing her cloak and hanging it up on a chair.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Flea?” he shouted, advancing on her.

“I'm protecting you,” she answered.

Porthos was so shocked by this answer that he stopped in his tracks.

“What?” he finally managed to say.

“I'm protecting you,” Flea said again. She closed the distance between them and stroked her hand down his chest.

Porthos caught her wrist and held it away from himself.

“This isn't funny, Flea. I told you. I don't belong here,” he said gently.

“You'll be safer here,” she said, pulling her wrist out of his grip.

She took a step away and turned her back on him.

“It's no more dangerous being a soldier than it is living 'ere,” Porthos said.

“It's safer than living with him,” she spat, suddenly turning angry.

“With who?”

“That Spanish Musketeer.”

“He's not Spanish,” Porthos said out of reflex. Aramis was just as French as Porthos, more so even, but people said it so often it was pure reflex to answer.

“He's hurting you,” Flea said, ignoring him.

This rendered Porthos speechless. How did she know that? Was she just guessing based on his history? He must have shown it that morning.

“I'm fine,” Porthos said inadequately.

“I heard it, Porthos. I came to your lodgings yesterday and I heard it. I heard you,” Flea said, her voice slightly uneven. She seemed to shake herself and continued, steadier this time. “I know you have your unusual desires, Porthos. I've always known you liked men more than women and I remember when you used to sneak off living here. I saw the mess of your back when you'd claim it was a nobleman whipping. I knew it wasn't but you got better,” she said fiercely.

“Got better?” Porthos asked, his mouth dry. This was a lot of information to get at once and he was floundering.

“You... I know you were troubled, Porthos. I would feel you get up in the night. I thought you were just going to Charon but then... I followed you one night and I saw... I've seen your back, remember,” Flea said quietly.

Porthos' jaw clenched. He had a map of very faint, paper thin scars on his back from whippings as a young man. He had been trying to meet his desires for pain but found it totally unsatisfactory and had given up.

“Then you stopped doing it,” Flea continued. She stepped closer to Porthos again and reached up to stroke his cheek but stopped herself at the last minute. “You got over it.”

Porthos ground his teeth together. She was so wrong. So wrong. He didn't get over it. He simply found Aramis who met that need in the most healthy, life affirming, loving way imaginable.

“He's dangerous,” she said softly.

“He's not,” Porthos said, tiredly. There was no point hiding things from Flea. She already thought the worst. “He loves me and I love 'im. He's everything I ever wanted, Flea.”

Flea span on her heel and stomped away from him to the door. She hammered on it and Porthos could hear the bar being lifted.

“You just need time away from him to get him out of your system. You're safe here,” she snapped.

Before Porthos could react, she stomped through the door and it was closed behind her.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Aramis was reciting his prayers for Porthos for the second time when he heard footsteps. Opening his eyes he saw two men in hoods arriving in the chamber. One was carrying a set of keys and the other a bowl. The first unlocked the door and the other stepped through into Aramis' cell.

The marksman might be injured but he was still a Musketeer and he had to get to Porthos. He braced his weight on his hands and shifted to kick out at the man. He caught him in the knees, propelling him back into his companion.

The keys hit the floor and Aramis twisted, ignoring the pain in his arm and managed to get to them with his free foot. As he started dragging them towards him, a booted foot connected with his chest and all of his breath escaped him. He collapsed to the floor, panting and was dimly aware of the sound of the keys being picked up.

“Fucking Musketeers,” one of them grunted.

“Enjoy your water,” the other said, laughing.

Aramis cursed his own stupidity as the water was poured onto the floor beside him. He heard the door being slammed shut and locked even as he watched the water mix into the dust on the floor and become nothing but mud.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Porthos had decided he wasn't going to stay here. He'd been all along the walls, looking for any window or weak point. Nothing. The door was the only way in or out.

He flexed his muscles for a few minutes, wincing as the fabric was brushing across the still tender flesh but it was manageable. He rolled his neck and walked to the door. In one solid motion, he rammed against it, feeling it shake. He did it again and felt the whole frame shudder. He heard the guards take the bar off and he stepped to the side.

As soon as the three pistols poked their way though the doors, Porthos struck with one heavy fist, slamming through all three fists like a stack of dominoes.

Two pistols were dropped but the furthest one kept a grip on his so Porthos lunged, wrapping two hands around the wrist and slamming it hard into the wall. A sharp shout of pain came from the man and he crumpled to the floor. Porthos whirled, meeting the second man by ramming the heel of his hand into his face. Blood spurted from the man's nose and he, too, dropped to the floor.

Before he had a chance to grab the third, however, a heavy club hit him between the shoulders, making him stumble. His heavy doublet took most of the impact but it was enough to unbalance him and a solid fist into his stomach made him grunt with pain.

Great. They had friends.

He stood up quickly, landing a hard right punch to the first man he got to and sending him to the floor. The club hit him in the back again and he shouted in pain. Another two clubs hit him as well. One in the stomach, the other in the back of the knees.

Porthos fell to the floor amid a flurry of blows and curled up tightly, wrapping his arms around his head to protect himself.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Porthos tries to be tactful, Aramis' situation goes from bad to worse.

The sound of the cell door woke Aramis. He couldn't remember falling asleep so he assumed it must have been the blood loss. He shifted on the floor to see who was coming in and it was the blonde woman.

“You,” he muttered, his voice slightly croaky.

“Me,” she replied, standing well out of leg and arm's reach and folding her arms.

“F... Flea, right?” Aramis asked, forcing himself to turn over as much as he could to look up at her.

“You know me,” she stated, slightly surprised.

“OF course. Porthos loved you,” Aramis said, tilting his head.

“Porthos thinks he loves you, too,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

Aramis smiled up at her, taking some satisfaction in the way his reaction made her nostrils flare.

“Porthos **does** love me,” Aramis said, honestly. The calm self assurance in his voice made Flea's eyes narrow.

“You don't love him,” she said.

“I do. More than you'll ever understand,” he said, shrugging. Pain shot through his arm at the motion but he tried to ignore it.

“You don't. You wouldn't do that to him if you loved him,” she retorted.

“Do what to him?” Aramis asked in confusion.

“I came to your house yesterday. I heard what you did,” she hissed.

Aramis closed his eyes in realisation. He couldn't believe his own stupidity.

“It was a trap,” he sighed. “You wanted me all along, not him. The hood on our table. The locked door. Too perfect. I'm the one you wanted and you laid a trap. For me, not him. Where is he?”

“He's safe now you're out the picture,” Flea said.

Aramis shook his head. While he was absolutely thrilled to know they'd let Porthos go, he knew Porthos wouldn't stop until they were reunited.

“He'll come for me,” Aramis said, tiredly.

“He doesn't know what... You're a bad person and you're taking advantage of him. Do you know when this started?” she asked, angrily.

“I do, thank you. I know him better than you ever will. I know exactly what happened when he was younger and, unlike you, I **understand** why. I've seen the scars. I've talked to him about them, about the reasons behind them, about when they happened,” Aramis said calmly.

“And you do it to him anyway,” she hissed.

“He's not a child this time, remember. He's a consenting adult who knows his own mind. You've no idea why he does it or why I do it. The two of us love each other and what we do is healthy and full of love,” Aramis said, slightly angry himself this time.

He hated the way she was implying Porthos was too weak to know his own mind. If anything, being true enough to himself to seek this out and enter into it so spiritedly made him a stronger person than this narrow minded bitch would ever be.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Flea said dismissively. “You have no idea how much it hurts.”

Aramis tried to reply but she clapped her hands twice and two masked men came in behind her.

“You have no idea how much you hurt him,” Flea repeated quietly. “But you will."

  
  


  
  


  
  


With a loud groan, Porthos woke up, stretched out on his back. He immediately recognised it as Flea's bed this time. That was good. At least this time it was a good old fashioned beating that made him pass out, he thought bitterly.

He stood up and blinked in surprise. He examined his ankle and tightly shackled around it was a metal manacle. He followed the chain and found it attached to a metal ring in the floor under the bed. Swearing loudly, he immediately set about testing the give in them both. It was only a couple of feet long so he could move around but not get anywhere near the door. He examined the ring in the floor but it was too well put in. His next tactic was to try and take his boot off but whoever had put it on knew how to adjust the leather to make it too tight to get either his boot off or the shackle itself.

He sighed heavily, dropping the chain to the floor in annoyance. Standing up, he stretched and twisted, testing his body. A few bruises and a bit of an ache but his heavy leather doublet had done its job and he was uninjured. His eyes landed on a plate of food left by the bed for him and he rolled his eyes. Clearly she expected him to stay for a while.

  
  


 

  
  


'Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit,' Aramis recited in silence. Another lash across his back landed. 'As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end.'

He was chained face first against the wall in the chamber outside his cell. His shirt had been removed and his forehead was resting against the cool stone as he silently prayed the rosary. As another thin line of fire exploded across his bare back, Aramis hoped God would understand that his hands were currently occupied and he was doing it without the physical beads.

The pain in his leg was growing and it had started trembling a few minutes ago. His arm was less painful now but with the trembling in his leg, more of his weight was being pulled on his shoulders. Another savage lash landed on his back and he could feel blood sliding down his skin. His throat was raw, though he hadn't made a sound, and he regretted losing that water earlier. Another lash and he scrambled to remember where he was in his prayers.

'Hail Mary, full of grace,” he chanted in his head. Another cruel lash landed and he felt the skin split again. He still hadn't uttered a word since they'd dragged him from the cell. Flea hadn't even had the stomach to stay and watch her men's handiwork. Well if she wanted them to humiliate him into crying, she was going to be disappointed. 'the Lord is with thee,' he continued.

A final lash landed and Aramis' leg finally gave out. His body gave a violent twist and with a sickening pop, Aramis felt his shoulder come out of its socket. He tasted blood on his tongue as he bit his own lip but a savage satisfaction rose in his chest. He still hadn't screamed.

  
  


 

  
  


 

“I'm helping you, Porthos,” Flea said, shaking her head.

“I've been 'ere for bloody hours, Flea. How are you helping me, exactly?” he asked, with a sigh.

Flea had returned with her own plate of food and the two of them were sat on the bed eating together. After his last disastrous attempt to leave on his own, he'd decided to try Aramis' normal tactic of diplomacy. She certainly didn't seem to want to hurt him so he'd decided to play nice until his friends came for him.

“Keeping you safe until you're free of him,” Flea answered simply.

“Safe, huh? Explains the bloody chain,” he muttered.

“I know it's going to take you some time to realise you're better off without him so I'm saving you from both him and yourself,” she explained.

“Flea. I never needed you to save me,” he said flatly.

Flea scowled.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Aramis was thrown bodily into his cell. He managed to twist in mid-air, protecting his shoulder but unfortunately he landed on his injured leg and collapsed in a heap. He cradled his dislocated arm to his chest and heard the door slam closed.

When he was certain the two men were gone, he allowed himself a low moan of pain. His leg was in agony after landing on it like that. His back was on fire and he could feel the dirt from the floor sticking to the oozing wounds. His bicep was throbbing painfully now but his shoulder was the worst of all.

Saying a silent prayer of thanks, he realised they hadn't bothered to shackle him this time and he flexed his arm experimentally. He looked at the wall and sighed. Bracing himself against the stone he took a deep breath. This was going to hurt.

He blinked awake a few seconds later, the pain having made him black out for a moment. He experimented and his shoulder was definitely back in place but the pain was unbelievable. Even wiggling his fingers made him see black spots in front of his vision. Aramis curled onto his side, cradling his arm and trying to keep his collection of wounds away from the dirt as much as possible.

Water. He needed water. His lips were cracked and his throat was incredibly sore. Would they bring him water after last time?

At least Porthos was safe. He'd be coming soon.

  
  


 

  
  


  
  


Porthos was curled on his side, wondering where Aramis was. He'd be coming soon. It was nearly midnight. Porthos was taken at lunchtime. Surely he'd have worked out who had him by now. Maybe they'd stopped him. Maybe he'd been hurt. The thought of Flea's insane scheme resulting in Aramis being hurt made his blood boil but he had to play nice. He forced the feeling down but it immediately flared back up when Flea pressed herself against his back.

“Get off,” he muttered.

“You need to sleep,” she said softly.

“I'm trying to,” Porthos said, trying to stop himself clenching his jaw.

Flea pressed herself against him again and this time Porthos pushed her away with one arm.

“Oh Porthos,” she said, irritated. “We've cuddled for warmth before. You never used to mind.”

Porthos rolled slightly towards her and fixed her with a level look over his shoulder.

“There's only one person in the world I want to keep me warm.”

  
  


  
  


  
  


Aramis heard the clink of the cell door and shifted to look. He was shivering and the guards were wearing heavy cloaks. It must be cold outside. It must be night. He'd been here for hours. He realised with a start the guards were talking to him.

“Huh? Not even chained up and still have no fight in you,” one of them taunted.

Aramis tried to ignore them but he could feel himself getting riled. He attempted to push himself up to a sitting position but pain shot through his arm and it gave out, leaving him collapsed on the floor again. The two men laughed.

“Pathetic,” one of them muttered.

Anger flared in him and Aramis gritted his teeth to try again, managing to get his arms to hold him. Supporting his weight on his good left arm, he shot his hand out and slammed the heel of his hand into the side of the closest man's knee.

“Fuck!” the man shouted.

He tried to kick at Aramis but his leg gave out and he fell to the floor. Aramis' hand lashed out again and delivered a swift punch to the man's groin. The second man grabbed the first by one arm and dragged him back a couple of feet out of Aramis' reach.

The Musketeer had managed to get up onto his knees, his thigh screaming in pain at the position but Aramis was forcing himself to swallow it. He was glaring at the two men in the doorway, adrenaline coursing through him, making everything hurt a little less.

The second of the two men, the more experienced, watched Aramis warily. He had the look of a cornered, wounded animal about him and as his friend could attest, that made him remarkably dangerous. He smirked to himself and held out the bowl of water he was holding.

Aramis felt his spirits rise at the sight of the water but his hopes were immediately dashed when the man cruelly poured it out onto the ground again.

When they left, Aramis let himself slump to the floor and gave a low moan of despair.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flea grows bolder while Aramis' situation becomes more desperate.

“Stop it,” Porthos said, angrily.

It was still night and he was still curled with his back to Flea but she was stroking his buttocks through his breeches.

“C'mon, Porthos. You know how good I can make you feel,” she said, her hand stroking his hip.

It was taking all of Porthos' willpower not to be violent and he couldn't bring himself to strike a woman, not even Flea. He was also clinging to the idea that co-operating, at least in part, would convince her he was fine or at least give Aramis and his brothers time to find him.

“Porthos,” she purred, walking her fingers round to his groin.

“Flea. If you touch me it will be rape,” he said flatly without looking at her.

He could feel her flinch and she withdrew, curling away from him.

 

  
  


  
  


Aramis was dozing when his cell door was opened again. He looked up and there was a single guard there. Based on his short, stocky stature, he hadn't met this one before.

“You don't attack me, you get water. Deal?” he asked, gruffly.

Too exhausted to fight, Aramis just nodded. The man nodded in reply and took a few steps towards Aramis. He placed the bowl carefully on the floor only just within Aramis' reach and stepped back until he was outside the cell again.

Aramis reached for the bowl but the sharp pain in his leg made him realise he was dangerously desperate. He took a deep breath and stopped himself. If he was going to get out of this, he needed to be sensible. Thirst wasn't his only problem.

He forced himself to a sitting position and shuffled carefully towards the water. He scooped some up with his hand and gave the wound on his arm a small wash, able to rinse out most of the dirt. He then turned his attention to his thigh. It wasn't as bad as he'd thought. The ball hadn't gone through his leg, just taken a healthy chunk out of the side.

Forcing himself to ration it, he poured a little water over the wound, hissing at the pain. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to place his foot flat on the ground, keeping the wound off the dirty floor.

He winced when he looked at the bowl. Half of the water was gone. He allowed himself a single mouthful before using the rest to try and rinse his back where the lashes had cut his skin, leaving open wounds.

Panting with the exertion, Aramis slumped sideways against the wall of the cell, all of his wounds suddenly all the more painful. He felt much more like himself, though. If he was going to survive until his brothers came to get him, he couldn't let himself succumb to infection. He just had to hope more water would be provided soon.

  
  


 

 

  
  


Porthos woke up with the feeling of a warm body against his. He smiled, thinking it was Aramis but then quickly realised it was Flea and shoved her away, violently.

Flea glared at him for a few seconds.

“You're going to regret protecting him so much,” she hissed and stormed out.

Porthos rubbed his head with his hands and groaned. So much for playing nice. He looked up at the high window. It was dawn. In a few hours he would have been here an entire day. Aramis had to be here soon.

 

  
  


  
  


  
  


“Hello Mademoiselle,” Aramis said weakly. “I thought you'd forgotten about me.”

Flea didn't answer, just gestured to her guards.

Despite his earlier stoic silence, Aramis couldn't stop the groan of pain as he was roughly pulled from the cell and thrown unceremoniously over the stone table in the antechamber.

He was bent at the waist and his feet could just about touch the ground. The two cruel guards were detailed to hold his arms outstretched above his head and, through the slit in their hoods, Aramis could see the glee in their eyes.

“Whip him,” Flea said curtly.

Aramis didn't have a chance to prepare for the blows. His already fragile skin was no match for the whip and he could feel it starting to bleed again. He scrambled to marshal his thoughts to try and get into the rosary but the building pain in his still weakened arm was making it harder and harder to focus. Every lash on his back felt like a knife slash and all he could think of was his vida, his life, his Porthos.

Porthos' relaxed sleeping face. The sleepy smile he wears when he wakes up. The groan when he stretches. Another lash. The way he kisses Aramis' hair in the mornings. The way his arms tighten around Aramis every time they wake. Another lash. The sight of him stretching in the mornings. The way he shrugs into his doublet. The soft smile when he holds Aramis' coat out for him. Another lash. More blood. No. Porthos.

The sound of Porthos' boots on the stairs to their home. The way he laughs with his whole body. The crinkle of his nose. Another strike. Porthos. The feel of his lips when they kiss. His ferocity. The way he lifts his chin when he's making threats. The way... His... Mustn't scream. Porthos.

“Stop!” Flea shouted angrily.

She surveyed the Musketeer's back, watched the blood trickling around his waist. It seemed he was immune to that, then. If he made Porthos cry, she would do whatever she had to to make him do so. Her eyes were caught by the tremble in his right arm.

“Stretch him,” she barked.

This time Aramis was prepared.

The feel of his hands. Those strong yet delicate hands. The way their eyes meet across the table in the yard. The way he raises his eyebrows suggestively when they train. His arm was bleeding again. Focus. The skin must have split under the pressure. Focus. Porthos. The way Porthos crouches before a fight. That savage grin when he knows he's going to win. The way he sniffs as if to say it was nothing but is always secretly pleased by praise levelled at him. When he... When...

Black spots were dancing in front of Aramis' eyes and he could feel his weakened shoulder beginning to shake, close to coming out of socket again.

“Stop,” Flea said again, her anger growing.

Aramis licked his cracked, sore lips, beginning to doubt his silent tactics but now it was all he was clinging to. He barely reacted when he felt someone pulling his breeches down. Thankfully they had eased the pressure on his arms and were simply holding him down. He was dimly aware that his underwear was still on when the whip landed harshly across the back of his legs.

When the pain shot through the wound on his leg, his vision blurred and he could no longer focus on particular things about Porthos. Just images of him.

Laying in bed beside Aramis. Their eyes meeting in lust. Porthos sat by a lake. Smiling in candlelight. Blood on his face in a fight. Drunkenly singing in the street. Laughing with Athos. Biting his tongue while learning to read.

When the blows suddenly stopped, blackness was flickering at the edges of his vision and he could feel blood running freely down his leg from the aggravated wound.

A sudden savage kick directly on the wound ripped an agonised scream from Aramis' throat and the world went black.

  
  


  
  


 

 

Porthos woke with a start. He didn't know what had woken him, only that had it been sudden and he was left with a lingering sense something was terribly wrong. There was a deep ache in his stomach and he knew it was the hole left by Aramis' absence. He needed the feel of Aramis' body in his arms. He needed to hear his sleepy murmurs. The gentle nudges that stopped Porthos snoring. The smell of his hair that always managed to get everywhere.

God, he needed him. Porthos wrapped his arms around his middle and squeezed tightly. He missed Aramis with a ferocity he hadn't expected. He knew Flea was barking mad but it still brought into his mind the idea of them parting and it hurt. Where was he?

He turned onto his back and noticed Flea wasn't there. He sighed deeply and threw his arm over his eyes. He gave the chain on his ankle an angry shake. The sun had risen properly now. They'd come. His brothers would come. Aramis would never accept that Porthos had left of his own volition. Even if he had, the man was so stubborn he wouldn't accept it until Porthos had said it to his face.

No. They'll come. They came last time, they'll come again. Athos said he'd tried to come last time but was stopped, though. Have they given up? No. Aramis would never give up. Not after last time. They'd be here soon. Aramis would be here soon.

  
  


  
  


 

Aramis' entire body was shaking where he lay in his cell. It took him a long time to work out where he was and why he couldn't stand up. He started giggling to himself and stopped just as suddenly. That wasn't good. He needed water. Soon. He'd seen this in the field. Men driven delirious by thirst. Who was it? Was it d'Artagnan? No. D'Artagnan had died from... from... Had he died? No. It was someone else. Aramis screwed his eyes closed and tried to sit up.

He was dressed in just his underwear, which meant he could clearly see the damage to his thigh through the hole in the fabric. It was a chunk of flesh about two inches long and one inch deep that was missing from his leg. The entire right leg of his braies was soaked with blood and the ground where he'd been laying was as well.

The cell door opened and Flea stood there holding a bowl of water.

“You can fuck off,” he muttered, his normal humour gone. “I'd prefer to deal with your psychopaths.”

“Don't like to be powerless?" Flea sneered. "Only like to make other people helpless? Want to destroy their will?”

Aramis felt that earlier rush of anger at her implying Porthos was some weak willed child and he lifted his head to stare steadily at her.

“Porthos' will won't ever be yours,” he said slowly. “Nor will mine.”

“If you agree to walk away from Porthos this minute and never contact him again, you can have this water and I'll set you free,” Flea said, scowling down at him.

“I won't leave his side until **he** tells me to or death takes me,” Aramis said.

“Have it your way,” Flea said, shrugging. She took two steps closer to Aramis and poured the water over his head before turning on her heel and leaving, slamming the door behind her.

Aramis sluggishly managed to get his limbs to co-operate enough to try and get most of the water into his various wounds. Bending his head, he licked the remaining drops from his shoulder out of sheer desperation.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Porthos woke to the sound of Flea returning and closing the door behind her. She walked quietly to his side and Porthos started to sit up.

“Shh,” she murmured. “Lay down.”

“Flea, stop,” Porthos said, removing her hand from his chest.

“I know you like me, Porthos. I know what you want,” she purred.

“Flea, stop. My will is my own,” Porthos said, angrily.

Flea's eyes widened as she stared at Porthos in silence.

“It won't ever be yours,” he said, forcing his tone into something more gentle.

Flea's eyes flashed dangerously.

“You even sound like him,” she spat and stormed out again.

Porthos stared after her in shock.

She had Aramis.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Porthos makes his plans to get out, things get worse for Aramis.

'Oh it's the short one,' Aramis thought to himself when his cell door was opened. At least this one wasn't cruel for the sake of it.

“Never seen the point of cruelty,” the man said, crouching beside the immobile Aramis. “Drink.”

“I said that out loud?” Aramis asked, faintly.

“Just drink,” the man urged, looking over his shoulder.

Aramis obeyed meekly, too desperate to question it. There was barely two mouthfuls in the bowl and Aramis reached out to lick, stopping himself only when Flea came in with the other two men.

They roughly yanked him to his feet but Aramis couldn't get his legs to co-operate enough to get them under him so they simply dragged him across the floor. He couldn't protest in the slightest when he was chained to the wall, the blood on his back sticking to the cold stone. He was faint from hunger, weak from thirst and his entire body was shuddering from the cold. He hadn't been fully dressed since the first time she'd had him whipped and laying in the cold cell covered in water had made everything worse.

In this position, Aramis finally realised it was the short, stocky one that was wielding the whip. He had a fleeting thought it was nice to know who was doing it before the lash landed across his chest.

He just couldn't fight the pain any more. The lashes rained over him, fast and hard. They overwhelmed him, the pain becoming a blazing, raging fire that consumed his body. Aramis got lost in it, his body twisting and writhing under the blows and he couldn't scream, even if he wanted to. He could feel the blood trickling down his chest and the pain in his shoulder flared up as he sagged in his restraints again. Dimly he realised he wasn't even reacting to the strikes any more. He just didn't have the energy. He felt a dull shock when he recognised he was probably going to die here.

Suddenly the blows stopped but Aramis didn't have the strength to look up. He felt her coming nearer but he was shaking too badly to gather the strength to recoil when she used her finger to lift his chin.

“This will all stop if you promise to leave Porthos alone. Leave Paris, leave the Musketeers, leave him. Remove yourself from his life and I will let you go from here,” Flea said in a bored tone.

“Never,” Aramis managed to croak.

“What is it you want, Aramis? Clearly it isn't freedom from me. What do you want from this?” she asked, dropping his chin and walking away.

Aramis gathered all of his strength, forced his weight down onto his legs enough to pull himself up. He lifted his chin and stared defiantly at Flea, even as she signalled to the man holding the whip.

“I want mi vida.”

She looked around at one of the other men in confusion.

“He's begging for his life,” he translated, laughing.

Aramis felt a tiny flicker of warmth in his chest at his secret. That wasn't what he meant at all.

  
  


  
  


 

  
  


Porthos flexed his hands and nodded to himself. This should work if he could pull it off. Control. Control.

“Oi!” he shouted at the door. “One of you better come and empty this pot or I'm gonna piss on your boss' floor and tell her it was your fault.”

The door opened and two of the guards aimed with their pistols through the door while the third entered the room.

“Step back then,” the guard said.

Porthos smirked, seeing the purple mass on his face. His was the nose he'd broken yesterday, then. He immediately stepped back.

“Flea got you running around, serving me. Handling my piss for me,” he smirked.

The guard glared at him.

“At least we ain't her bitch. All chained up like a little whore for her to fuck as she pleases,” he said.

Porthos blinked in shock and took a step back towards the bed.

“See that, Adnet?” one of the other guards asked. “Truth fucking hurts.”

“I can't believe this is the same guy everyone used to talk about,” Adnet said, sneering.

“He's a fucking has-been. What was it Charon used to say about him, Molyneux?” the third man asked.

Molyneux and the third man entered the room behind Adnet, getting closer to Porthos who took another step back.

“Said he used to run this place,” Molyneux answered.

Adnet laughed.

“He's just a little bitch now, though,” he said.

The three of them crowded around Porthos who sank onto the bed and dropped his head into his hands.

“Oh look,” the third man mocked. “We made baby cry.”

Adnet lashed out and kicked Porthos in the shin but the Musketeer didn't react. The three of them laughed raucously and slapped each other on the back.

“This is the almighty Porthos?” Adnet asked. “Fucking pathetic.”

They all stepped even closer, towering over Porthos and Adnet again kicked out to strike Porthos. His ankle was caught in two strong hands. He barely had a second to register the way the silent man was grinning up through his eyelashes.

Porthos rose to his feet with an ear splitting roar, not letting go of the man's ankle, tipping him backwards to land heavily on the floor. He slammed his elbow into Molyneux's face even as his other arm came up, his hand balled into a fist and struck out with a sickening crack into the third man's face.

He stamped down hard onto Adnet's groin before turning back to Molyneux, pulling the pistol from his belt and punching him hard in the face, adding to the damage done by his hard elbow only seconds before. Molyneux crumpled to the floor and Porthos whirled, lashing out with one of his strong legs and kicking straight into the third man's thigh, forcing him down to one knee.

Porthos tossed the pistol into his right hand and, using the handle, slammed it hard into the kneeling man's head, knocking him out instantly. He turned back and kicked savagely at Molyneux's face, rendering him unconscious as well.

He bent down and ripped the pistol from the third man's belt and pointed them both at Adnet who was still sprawled on the floor.

“Nuh, uh. I'll take that,” he said, pressing his foot on Adnet's hand where it was reaching for his own gun. Adnet stopped moving immediately. He flicked his eyes up to Porthos and between the two pistols, considering his options. He closed his eyes in defeat and handed Porthos his pistol before raising his hands.

“Key. Now,” Porthos barked.

He tucked two of the pistols onto his belt while Adnet removed the shackle from his ankle. He crouched down, his face inches from Adnet's and when he spoke it was little more than a growl.

“Where the fuck is Aramis?”  
  


 

  
  


  
  


Water was flicking gently over Aramis' face, bringing him back to wakefulness. He was hardly aware of what was going on, now. He knew he'd been moved onto his back on the table and he seemed to be naked now. He couldn't feel his hands at all. That was a bad sign. His arms were stretched up above his head and a tug met with the clunk of a chain.

Rolling his head to the side he realised Flea was stroking his right arm, pressing her fingers against the knife wound. He guessed she was trying to see if he would scream again but couldn't work up the energy to care.

“I'm starting to see what Porthos saw in you to begin with,” Flea said, thoughtfully, her eyes roaming across Aramis' naked body. “I mean I knew he always liked men a bit more than women so he must have gotten into bed with you to start with for you to manipulate and control him like you do.”

“You... don't... He'll never forgive you,” Aramis panted, hating how weak his voice sounded. He'd wanted to again defend how Porthos couldn't be manipulated but he just didn't have the energy.

“I know you by reputation of course,” she said, ignoring his words. Her hand smoothed over his chest and stomach and Aramis wished he had the ability to move away from her touch. “I'm told you are quite the womaniser. I suppose you think you can charm me the way you charm every other lady to work a way out of here.”

“You... are... no.... lady,” Aramis croaked.

“No. That's true. I'm not. I am a woman, though. I'm sure you know how to please a woman,” she said darkly.

Aramis recognised the shift in her expression and his heart sank. He knew that look. He'd seen it in many rapist's eyes. He felt a wave of nausea, despite the emptiness of his stomach, as he realised she'd moved beyond simply wanting to hurt him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this your last warning before the non-con Archive warning comes into effect.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos searches the Court while Aramis is left alone with Flea.

Porthos made his way swiftly and silently down the hallway. He'd used the chain to bind the three men inside Flea's room and kept all of their pistols. He'd also taken one's cloak, two of their swords and now had three small knives hidden about his person.

His escape would be noted as soon as someone set foot in that corridor, seeing the guards missing, but he had a fair idea of where Aramis was being held.

He pulled the hood up over his head a little higher and stepped out into the court.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Aramis gulped in as much air as he could but it wasn't much. It certainly wasn't enough to ease the burning pain in his chest. Flea was riding his face mercilessly, cutting off his air. She had rearranged her skirts so they covered Aramis' face entirely, meaning that even when he could breathe in, it was hot and dark and increasingly less effective.

“You need to try harder, Aramis,” she grunted. “If you could get hard, I could ride that instead, letting you breathe.”

Aramis retched at the thought, the movement making Flea buck on his face.

“But I suppose since I'm not crying and in pain it won't work for you. I bet you get hard when you have Porthos begging, don't you?” she asked, becoming breathless as she continued to move on him.

Aramis screwed his eyes closed and held himself entirely still. He'd learned when she first settled upon him that biting her was met with a swift punch to the knife wound on his arm. He just didn't have the energy or the will to fight any more. He knew from the heavy fog he was working through, he was dying.

All he could do was silently chant Porthos' name, even as he felt Flea shuddering above him in climax.

A minute later he gasped as cool, fresh air rushed into his lungs when Flea finally climbed off him. It was like the greatest, best draught of wine in the world and he could feel his chest inflating.

The relief was ruined a second later when he involuntarily sucked in a sharp, painful breath as he felt Flea's hand stroking his still soft penis.

“Just imagine Porthos, now. Crying, in pain... That'll help,” Flea said. “Imagine him begging.”

Aramis lifted his head and met her eyes.

“You don't... know the... first thing about him,” he panted.

“Oh I do, you know,” she smirked. “I bet you get hard when he's on his knees, when he's begging you to stop, pleading with you for a reprieve.”

Aramis managed to force a smile to his lips and let his eyes crinkle slightly, pride filling him. She could say whatever she liked about him but about Porthos? No. He needed to correct her.

“Porthos never begs."

  
  


  
  


  
  


Porthos stopped against the wall and looked across the yard to the doorway on the other side. It led down to a small collection of cells, a makeshift prison. They used it when members of the community needed reining in. They never involved the guards. Not down here. A few days in the cells without the little food people could scrounge on the surface was enough to make sure people didn't steal from their own.

Last time Porthos had been here the door had been old and rotten. This one looked sturdy and he could guess it was locked. There were two guards on the door, neither of which Porthos knew. He could guess there were plenty more inside. It was foolhardy to go in there without knowing Aramis was down there for certain.

He stood quietly for a few minutes, just watching from under his hood, until a man came up out of the cellar with a bowl and headed toward the well.

Porthos strode across to the well and took up a position next to him while the man lowered the bucket.

“Small bowl,” he remarked quietly.

“Small thirst. What's it to you?” the man snapped.

“Now, now. No need to be like that,” Porthos said, slapping him on the back and resting his hand on his shoulder. “Just wondering who you're getting water for that doesn't need much.”

“Mind your own,” the man retorted, beginning to pull the bucket up.

Porthos closed his fingers around the man's shoulder and squeezed. The man opened his mouth to shout but a sudden increase of pressure made it just a whimper.

“That's it. Don't make a scene. Here, let me help you with that,” Porthos said, grinning.

He leaned over and with his free arm, began to wind the bucket back up. The man's eyes widened as the bucket came up quickly with only one arm. He looked up at Porthos, wincing slightly at the show of strength.

“Can you help me with something?”

The man nodded quickly.

“Good boy,” he said, grinning again. “Now... I've lost my friend. Gonna help me find 'im? Hm?”

 

 

 

 

Aramis retched again, his empty stomach unable to provide more than bile, coating his throat and making his eyes burn. The feel of her hand on him was quite literally making him sick but at least he wasn't responding to her touch. For the first time he actually wished the cloud of death he could feel creeping up on him would get a move on.

“Oh Aramis,” she pouted. “I thought you like this kind of thing. Chains, power, pain.”

“Consent,” Aramis croaked.

Flea narrowed her eyes at him and walked out, leaving him as he was.

Aramis knew he should be taking the opportunity to do a quick inventory but he just couldn't summon the will. His various wounds weren't nearly as concerning as the dehydration.

He was increasingly drowsy and losing time. His muscles weren't responding properly and he could feel a cramp in his leg that had nothing to do with his position. Even if they did keep feeding him drips of water, they weren't feeding him enough to live on.

If they suddenly began to, however, he'd never be able to survive past two or three weeks without food and he wasn't sure how long he'd already been here. More than twenty four hours at least. He closed his eyes. He wasn't sure if he was trying rest until she came back or whether he was simply waiting to die.

He remembered a day from years ago when he'd camped with Porthos beside a lake. He remembered the sight of him swimming in the sunshine. The water glittering on his dark skin. The smile on his face when they embraced. The drips coming off his beard. The way the sunlight had made it seem he was glittering. Aramis wrapped the memory tightly around himself and let the darkness take him.

 

 

 

 

Porthos could feel himself vibrating with barely controlled anger as he followed the man into the building above the makeshift dungeon. It served as something of a storeroom but there were a few rooms up here that served as bedrooms. If he was going to be able to find Flea anywhere while Porthos was in her main room, it would be here. Conveniently close to the prison.

Porthos heard footsteps ahead of them and stopped dead in the hallway. The man beside him began to tremble as Flea came round the corner, a satisfied smirk on her lips but she stopped dead when she saw Porthos striding towards her.

“Porthos,” she said in a whisper.

He couldn't form any words. He couldn't breathe. He'd never really believed it until he saw her here. She was crazy enough to try and make him want her but crazy enough to kidnap Aramis? To keep him in this place?

“I'm helping you, Porthos,” she said, sashaying closer.

The man beside him seemed to shrink against the wall, cowering against the furious shaking of Porthos' body.

“Where is he?” he growled.

“Safe,” she said, faltering for the first time.

“Where?” he repeated.

“Let's talk somewhere. Get some wine,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice.

Porthos drew one of the pistols from his belt and pointed it directly at Flea's chest.

“Give me the keys and I'll find him myself,” Porthos said, his arm steady.

“Are you going to shoot me, Porthos?” she asked, looking around wildly.

“Give me the  **fucking** keys.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos encounters resistance while Aramis continues to fade.

Aramis opened his eyes and realised with a bitter chuckle it was taking him longer and longer to work out where he was each time this happened.

Someone had moved him back into his cell, not chained or shackled at all but still utterly nude. He giggled weakly at the realisation he had absolutely no memory of being moved. He was shivering and tried to roll onto his side to keep his back clear of the mud and dust on the floor but his muscles wouldn't obey him. His stomach was cramping painfully and his head was absolutely pounding.

He considered trying harder to move but he needed to conserve what little energy he had for when she finally returned. He closed his eyes and tried to will his body into sleep rather than the exhausted black outs he'd been experiencing so far. All he could do was picture Porthos' face.

  
  


  
  


  
  


The door at the top of the stairs exploded inwards in a shower of wood splinters as a man was thrown through it. Another body came flying after it and the guards looked up to see Porthos filling the doorway, blocking out the daylight.

As the two men drew their pistols, a shot rang out, dropping one to the floor. One of them shot back but missed Porthos by a foot as the big man ducked. He quickly stood again, firing the pistol in his other hand, taking care of the second. Porthos dropped the pistols in his hands, drew the third and hurried down the stairs, taking the as yet unfired one from the dead man.

He rushed forwards a few steps and ducked into an alcove leading to the first cell, hearing footsteps approach. As they reached his hiding place, he launched himself out of the doorway and slammed a man into the wall, his head hitting the concrete with a resounding crack. Porthos turned to his left and shot the only man who had managed to run past the alcove. He immediately turned back to the approaching men and fired, taking another one out.

With a loud roar he launched himself towards the next three oncoming men, tackling one around the waist and driving him into another. A kick landed to his hip and Porthos reached out, landing a hard, hard punch to the man's knee, bringing him down as well.

It had been a while since he'd brawled like this. No honour, no code, no seconds. Even in a tavern fight they were rarely fights to the death and even then they were never this... ugly.

Another loud roar sounded in the corridor as Porthos slammed his elbow down into the throat of the man he was laying on, who immediately went still. Porthos drew one of the concealed knives from his boot and drove it into the chest of the second man, where it remained stuck.

He rolled onto his stomach to get up but felt a heavy boot connect with his thigh. He drew another knife and stabbed it deep into his attacker's leg. In the few seconds it took the man to react, Porthos had gotten his feet under him and backhanded him, following it up with another savage punch, forcing the man to the floor where he lay still.

He crouched for a minute, quickly removing the weapons from the pile of unconscious bodies. Freshly armed with three more loaded pistols, he let his face spread into a slow smile as more footsteps could be heard approaching.

  
  


  
  


Aramis flickered his eyes open again. Even that simple act was growing harder and harder. He realised he couldn't hear himself breathing any more. His mind felt foggy, confused. This must be what dying felt like. Finally.

He began reciting saints to try and clear the fog but kept losing his place as the dehydrated confusion was setting in.

The only one he could think of was St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations. There was something there. Why did that Saint mean something? Was it just his own situation? No. It meant more than that. He could hear footsteps in the hallway and he tried to pull himself together to resist her again.

“Saint Jude,” he murmured. “Fitting.”  
  


  
  


  
  


It felt as though all the air was sucked out of the room when Porthos finally laid his eyes on Aramis.

He was in one of the cells, laying naked on his back with his limbs haphazardly around him. There were red lines criss-crossing his chest and stomach, about half of which were crusted with dried blood. His hair was dusty and matted and there was a wound on his arm. Stepping closer Porthos could see another on his leg. He was stripped naked and Porthos felt a wave of terror at the amount of blood matting the hair on his leg and the floor around him.

What worried him the most, however, was the position he was laying in. Aramis almost exclusively rested on his side, even when injured. Today he was... sprawled. There was no other word for it and there was no doubt in Porthos' mind he'd been thrown, landed in that position and had been unable to move. He must be unconscious, then. Porthos looked at the bunch of keys in his hands, looking for the correct one.

“Saint Jude,” came a whisper.

Porthos froze and looked through the bars at Aramis. His lips moved again but no sound made it out and Porthos felt fear grip his heart. If he was conscious but still unable to move... Things were bad.

  
  


  
  


 

“Aramis,” came a voice.

That was new. They didn't normally talk to him when they moved him. He tried to brace himself for the yank on his arms he knew was coming but couldn't get his body to respond at all.

A lightning bolt of pain shot through his body when an arm slid under his knees, pressing against the bullet wound on his thigh, but he still couldn't bring himself to protest.

He frowned in confusion when a smell reached his nose. It was gunpowder, horses and a lingering scent of something spicy that was painfully familiar.

More pain as he was lifted into someone's arms and he could feel himself losing consciousness. The image of Saint Jude flitted across his vision just before darkness fell again.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a tense wait to see if Aramis can recover.

Aramis tried to giggle to himself but couldn't get the sound out. He was hallucinating again. Porthos' voice, beautiful even in his anger, was winding its way quietly through Aramis' mind. As hallucinations went, this was a good one. The voice stopped. He wanted it back. Why wouldn't his mind let him listen to Porthos as he died? Cruel world.

 

 

 

 

“I said no, Lemay!” shouted Porthos, finally unable to control his anger.

“You are **both** valuable, Porthos,” Captain Tréville said, his own voice remaining calm, despite his frustration.

“I am not fucking leaving him!” shouted Porthos. There was a few seconds of silence. “Captain,” he added, more quietly.

Tréville watched him take a deep breath, calming himself down.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Tréville said brusquely. “We will see you later.”

Lemay nodded and scurried down the stairs. Captain Tréville watched him go and turned back to Porthos. He considered the man before him.

It had been a terribly painful couple of days while the Musketeers had been able to make the argument to launch an assault on the Court. When they'd finally managed to get in and search the place, they'd found Porthos in a square in the Court of Miracles, just emerging from a cellar with Aramis in his arms. Their first thought was that Aramis was dead and Tréville could remember the way it felt as the world dropped away from him at the moment.

Porthos had quickly shouted at them for help and the three Musketeers he was with had rushed forwards.

By the time Tréville had managed to make himself come closer, they'd laid two cloaks on the ground and Porthos had carefully placed Aramis on them. Tréville had knelt beside him and tugged his glove off to find Aramis' pulse. It was there but it was frighteningly weak and it was plain to see Aramis was in awful condition. Covered in blood and dirt. He was cold to the touch and utterly limp. His arm had a deep laceration in it, his stomach and chest were covered with thin whip lines. The Captain had no idea what had happened to his leg but almost the entire limb was covered in streaks of dried blood and it had made even his experienced stomach clench to see the chunk missing.

Tréville had added his cloak to the bundle around him and Porthos had picked him up again. He didn't even try and suggest anyone else carry the man. Twice on the way back to the garrison, which was closer than their home, Aramis' body had shook violently as he fitted. They'd taken him to some empty quarters and called for the Doctor. That was four hours ago and Lemay had been back twice since then.

His instructions were that Aramis needed to be kept warm and drink. He was drifting in and out of some sort of consciousness but never lucid and hadn't yet recognised anyone. They'd been dribbling water into his mouth each time and he was gradually beginning to swallow it.

On this visit, Lemay had noticed some stiffness in the way Porthos was moving and identified some bruising on his back. A few curt questions and Porthos had revealed he'd been drugged and beaten during his own two day absence. So far their attempts to get him to rest had been fruitless.

“Porthos,” Tréville said gently, watching the way the man's eyes kept flicking to the door behind him, where Aramis lay just beyond.

“I can't leave him, Captain,” Porthos said.

“I know, Porthos. I just want you to try and sleep while one of us sits with you both,” Tréville said.

“I can't. I can't until I know. If I was asleep and he... I just can't,” Porthos said desperately.

“OK, son. OK,” Tréville said, reaching up and squeezing his shoulder.

Porthos nodded and disappeared back into the room, closing the door behind him. Tréville sighed and returned to his office.

 

 

 

 

Dying was getting better, Aramis mused. It was warm. All the cold and the fear had gone. Porthos' face swam through his mind and he could remember in such vivid detail the feel of his hand, so strong and so warm, clasped around his. The touch of his lips on Aramis' forehead. It left a burning mark on his skin that comforted him. It was almost physical, the force of the memory. Just as the memory of his lips faded, so too did the memory of his hand. If only they weren't memories.

 

 

 

 

“Thanks,” Porthos said quietly as Athos arrived with extra blankets.

D'Artagnan was close behind him and he added two water skins to the pile on the table. Porthos recognised them as d'Artagnan and Athos' own.

“We were going to bring you food but Serge says you keep refusing it,” d'Artagnan said, watching Athos add the blankets to Aramis' still unmoving body.

“Later,” Porthos muttered.

Athos and d'Artagnan had been itching to take arms into the Court of Miracles from the moment they'd realised Aramis was not at home. It had taken a lot of discipline to stop themselves storming in. Once Tréville had given the green light, they had joined in the search for Porthos and Aramis but had taken their team to search the main chamber, assuming they were being kept there. When word came that they'd both been found, they'd rushed back and arrived at the garrison at the same time as Lemay. The sight of Aramis cold, limp and covered in blood would stick with them both forever.

“Porthos,” Athos said quietly, moving to pull the blankets up under Aramis' chin.

“Look at him, Athos,” Porthos said. Here, alone with his best friends, he finally let the tears well up. “Look at him.”

“I see him, brother,” Athos said quietly. “Let me cover his hand, too.”

“I've got to touch him,” Porthos said in a choked sob.

He hadn't let himself stop or think since the moment he'd felt how cold Aramis was in that cell. The look on the Doctor's face had told Porthos more than his words. Aramis was very close to death. The idea that Aramis could pass and as a direct result of his own desires and his own past was almost too much to bear.

“Come on,” Athos said, gently but firmly pulling Porthos' fingers off Aramis' cold hand.

Porthos gave a loud sniff and leaned forwards to kiss Aramis on the forehead, lingering his lips against the still icy skin. Sitting back down, he finally surrendered his grip on Aramis' hand and let Athos tuck it under the thick layer of blankets.

“He's still fighting,” d'Artagnan said gently. “Lemay says he's not comatose and that he's still swallowing.”

Porthos looked up at his friends. D'Artagnan had moved closer without him noticing and he felt his eyes welling up again.

“He... He... because of me,” he stammered, a painful lump in his throat.

D'Artagnan bent slightly and hugged Porthos tightly. To Porthos' surprise, Athos' arms joined him and Porthos finally let himself cry.

 

 

 

 

That wasn't right. Why was God making him listen to Porthos cry? Was he being sent to hell after all? Aramis wanted to reach out for Porthos to tell him it was OK but he just couldn't manage to make his body do anything. He managed to make a low moan of protest, pleading with God to give him any other sound than that.

 

 

 

 

“Did you hear that?” Porthos asked, sitting up and pushing his friends away slightly.

“I think so,” Athos said slowly while d'Artagnan shook his head.

“Aramis,” Porthos said urgently. “Aramis. Come back. It's me. Your Porthos. Come on. Please, Sire.”

There was no response apart from the slight movement of his lips that he'd been doing for the last two hours. Athos took up the skin and fed him a few drops of water, which he swallowed. A few more and he swallowed again. After the third time, he went entirely still and Athos put it down.

“That was him,” Porthos said, fiercely. “He's coming back.”

Unseen by Porthos, d'Artagnan and Athos shared a worried look over his head.

 

 

 

 

Athos stared moodily at his empty bottle of wine. He should have picked another one up on his way home. There was a gentle knock at his door. Only one person knocked on his door like that.

“I didn't think tonight was our night,” he murmured, opening the door.

D'Artagnan smiled as he slipped past Athos into his small chambers.

“I figured both of us could do with the comfort,” d'Artagnan said, settling on Athos' bed.

The older Musketeer joined him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Thanks,” Athos murmured and pressed a kiss into the Gascon's hair.

 

 

 

 

Aramis decided things were definitely getting weird. He wasn't floating as much and the warmth was still there. Flea seemed to have forgotten about him entirely. Was that because he was already dead and just hadn't realised it? The pain in his leg was getting worse, though. When it had started fading, he thought that meant dying. What did it getting worse mean? Was he alive after all?

 

 

 

 

Porthos was curled on the bare floor, sheer exhaustion making him succumb to sleep after Athos had almost wrestled him to the ground. A low moan woke him and he struggled to sit up in panic.

“Hey,” d'Artagnan said, dropping to his knees beside Porthos and helping him untangle from the blanket. “He's fine. Just made that noise a couple of times. Athos is feeding him some water.”

Porthos turned onto his knees at Aramis' side and rested his chin on the mattress beside his shoulder.

“He's not dying,” Porthos whispered.

 

 

 

 

There was that smell again. That spicy warm something. How could he not have recognised it? It was Porthos. That smell was Porthos. He inhaled deeply and sighed in pleasure. Porthos was here. This definitely wasn't dying if Porthos was here. He forced his eyes open and there he was. The glorious mess of black curls was against his face. Explained the smell. Porthos was curled on his side, pressed up against Aramis' body but on top of the covers, his face in Aramis' neck.

“Porthos,” he breathed, confirming it to himself. He smiled and closed his eyes again.

 

 

 

 

Athos brought Porthos some breakfast the next morning and frowned when he saw the tense way Porthos was holding himself. When he'd left the night before Porthos had been curled carefully against Aramis' body but now he was sat tensely in the chair, his eyes unmoving from the marksman's face.

“Porthos?” he prompted.

“He's stopped the mumbling. I woke up about an hour ago and he hasn't moved since then. That mumbling and fidgeting he was doing? None of that,” Porthos said without looking away.

Athos placed the food down and felt Aramis' forehead.

“His skin is warmer,” Athos observed.

“Call the Doctor,” Porthos said with a bite.

“I don't think that's necessary. He's coming at noon already,” Athos said gently. He lay a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

“He said call 'im if there's any change. No more signs of consciousness is a change,” Porthos insisted.

“Porthos,” Athos said.

“There is a change, Athos. Call him,” Porthos said, his voice rising in anger.

Athos squeezed Porthos' shoulder but didn't move.

“Porthos,” came a whisper.

“Aramis?” Porthos asked, his throat suddenly tight.

“Mmm. Porthos,” Aramis said again.

Athos saw a small smile turning the corners of Aramis' mouth and he squeezed Porthos' shoulder again.

“I'll call the Doctor.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis is finally able to return home but it becomes apparent a lot of damage has been done.

Three days, Aramis was told. It had been three days since Porthos had rescued him from that cell. It was somewhat comforting to know that the others were only ten minutes behind him. Now that he was lucid, the pain in his leg was awful. Doctor Lemay promised he'd actually slept through the worst of it but Aramis found that very little comfort.

The wounds on his front and back were mercifully light. They weren't nearly as bad as they'd felt and he was told he had the skill of the wielder to thank. He remembered the short, stocky one being the kindest to him and guessed he'd avoided going all out with the whip to avoid doing too much damage. His suggestion to go and thank the man was met with Porthos' angry growl so he dropped it.

Porthos was, however, turning out to be the world's best nursemaid. Aramis was under strict instructions to keep drinking and after the first day, he began passing water again. Despite the gentle teasing, Porthos was managing to help him without too much insult to his dignity.

Captain Tréville had excused Porthos from his duty for as long as it took to get Aramis onto his feet. They'd relocated to their home after another three days, a week since Aramis had been rescued, Aramis reluctantly agreeing to be taken by carriage since he could only just stand up to pass water. Being carried down the stairs in the yard was humiliating but he had been informed they'd seen him carried naked and delirious out of the cell so he'd stayed quiet about it.

When they got home Porthos carried him up the stairs to their apartment and he made no protest.

“Bed?” Porthos asked.

“Sofa,” Aramis said.

“I just need to take my boots off,” Porthos said.

“No. It's fine,” Aramis said flatly.

Porthos stopped where he was, Aramis still in his arms.

“Sire?” he whispered.

“I'm tired, Porthos,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos frowned and walked around their living space, the long way round until he stood behind the sofa.

There had been a long standing rule since less than a month after they moved in that no boots were allowed on the rug in front of their fire. Even Athos and d'Artagnan didn't dare set foot on it.

Carefully Porthos lay Aramis on the sofa before kicking his own boots off and coming round to do the same for Aramis.

“Not necessary, Porthos,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos knelt to gently remove Aramis' long boots before shuffling up to kneel at his head.

“Your rules are necessary,” Porthos whispered.

“When are you back on duty?” Aramis asked, ignoring his comment.

“Tomorrow. You're strong enough to move around the house if I leave food. Athos is bringing some books as well,” Porthos answered.

OK,” Aramis said in a flat voice.

“How are you feeling?” Porthos asked.

“Still hurts. Leg mostly but not as much any more. Feels like it's healing. My arm's fine now,” Aramis answered quietly.

Porthos shifted to sit on the floor and stroked Aramis' hair back from his face.

“And the other stuff?”

Pain flickered across Aramis' face. Until now Porthos had respected his wishes not to talk about his emotional or psychological health since they'd been surrounded by other people. He knew that Porthos needed to know what had happened but thus far he'd managed to keep the details to himself, sticking to clinical information about how his injuries came about.

“Still hurts,” Aramis whispered.

Porthos nodded and leaned forwards to press a kiss to Aramis' forehead. He'd only kissed Aramis' lips once since he'd woken up but his lover had flinched away from him. His stomach rolled at the thought of what Flea could have done to make him do so.

“Are you **all** on duty tomorrow?” Aramis asked.

“Athos and d'Artagnan are on tonight for some event at the palace. Athos was going to bring you some books before he went home for the day,” Porthos answered. He frowned and examined Aramis' face for a moment. “Want him to stay while I'm gone?”

Aramis turned his head away, facing the back of the sofa and nodded.

“She'll die before she gets anywhere near you again,” Porthos promised.

“Don't,” Aramis whispered.

“Aramis?”

“You loved her,” Aramis murmured, still not looking at Porthos.

“Maybe once. Not now. Not after this. The only reason I didn't kill her where she stood is because I needed to get to you. I just shoved her to the ground and came to you,” Porthos said fiercely.

At this Aramis rolled his head back to look at Porthos, a frighteningly blank look in his eyes.

“You nearly killed her?”

“I still might,” Porthos muttered.

To his horror, Aramis felt tears filling his eyes.

“Aramis?” Porthos asked, reaching up to stroke his hair again.

“It's all my fault,” Aramis whispered. “She... all because of-”

“Shh, shh,” Porthos murmured, gently laying his hand over Aramis' mouth.

“You don't understand,” Aramis protested weakly. “It was because she heard me-”

“Shh,” Porthos said again. “I know why she did it. She was wrong, love. Wrong. I belong with you.”

“She was right,” Aramis whispered, turning his face away.

Porthos rocked back onto his heels. Aramis' words were like a slap in the face. He felt fury rolling through him again at the thought that someone had made Aramis doubt their relationship.

“No she wasn't,” Porthos said, his voice shaking.

Aramis turned his head back, mistaking the tremble in Porthos' voice for tears. When he saw the normally kind eyes were a flat, deadly dark colour, he winced.

“Stop. Stop, Porthos. No more anger. No more hatred,” he said tiredly. “It was simple concern that led her to trying to help you.”

“No,” Porthos said angrily. “It might have been concern that made her take me. It was not concern that made her take **you**. It was certainly not concern that made her...” he trailed off, unsure how to complete that sentence.

“Have me whipped?” Aramis supplied.

“She... Sire... She did more than that,” Porthos said haltingly.

“I don't think she was trying to kill me,” Aramis answered, turning his head away again.

Porthos winced at the action. Aramis' eyes were always busy, flickering in thought. He was always the one to connect with the distressed, the scared, the confused. To see him continuing to turn away like this was heart breaking.

“Maybe not but she's done something to you,” Porthos insisted. “Something beyond shooting, stabbing, whipping and almost killing you.”

“Porthos. Please don't,” Aramis pleaded weakly.

“Something that makes you unwilling to look at me,” Porthos pressed. “Something that makes you flinch when I reach to kiss you.”

Aramis watched out of the corner of his eye as something like realisation passed over Porthos' face and, as expected, a swift look of horror. What else could Aramis expect after he pleasured her like that? Whether he'd enjoyed it or not, the truth was he'd been with her. They'd been intimate.

“It wasn't true. Wasn't real," Porthos whispered.

Porthos felt cold all over. Flea had told Aramis about cuddling Porthos in bed. He hadn't responded, though. He'd pushed her off twice. He'd even told her it would be rape to touch him. Why would Aramis believe it was more than that? Was Aramis angry that Porthos had willingly shared a bed?

“It happened,” Aramis said. He swallowed hard to press down the growing pain in his stomach and managed a shrug.

“You blame me for it?” Porthos asked, his eyes filling with tears.

“Why would I?” asked Aramis, puzzled.

Porthos swallowed hard around the growing lump in his throat. He'd only done it to try and make her co-operate. It was before he'd known she had Aramis. He didn't do it because he wanted. Aramis had to know that. The thought of her fingers stroking across buttocks flashed into his mind and he felt a wave of nausea. That was it. Flea had touched him and Porthos had let her. No wonder Aramis was angry.

The thoughts were coming too thick and fast for Porthos to keep up with and he angrily rubbed the moisture in his eyes away.

“I'm sorry,” he said finally.

“For what?” Aramis asked, even more confused. Despite himself he turned back to Porthos again and was surprised to find him on the verge of tears.

“For all of it,” Porthos said, helplessly. “For making you do that to me. For letting her take me. For letting them take you. For not finding you sooner. For not killing her. For-”

“Porthos,” Aramis said sharply, cutting him off. “I held the cane. I suggested you come home alone. I went into that place alone. You came as soon as you could. I don't wish for you to kill someone on my account. Certainly not someone you love.”

“Loved,” Porthos corrected fiercely, the black look seeping into his eyes again.

“If there's blame to be had, I will take it,” Aramis said.

“I love you,” blurted Porthos.

“I love you too,” Aramis said.

Internally he winced. Once he'd woken up and realised Porthos was safe, the reality of what had happened to him hit Aramis like a tonne of bricks and he'd been trying hard to keep it pressed down. The physical ailments would fade, he'd been told. His arm was already almost back to normal, the stitches having been removed just before they'd left the yard. His leg was still agony but he'd seen it that morning when the bandages were changed and it was already beginning to fill out again. He'd never be clean, though.

He couldn't stop the shudder that ran through his body when he remembered the way she'd touched him. So personally, as if he didn't matter. The way she'd... on his face...

“Love,” whispered Porthos desperately. He'd seen the pain flashing across Aramis' face.

Aramis winced again. The idea that pure, perfect, loving Porthos would ever have to be soiled by touching him... Aramis was dirty. He'd never be clean again. Not after that. Porthos didn't deserve to be infected by that. After all... It was Aramis' own reputation that made him deserve it. She'd said it herself. Aramis had never been choosy about his body so he was fair game.

“I can't,” Aramis whispered.

“Aramis,” Porthos pleaded.

“I'm tired,” Aramis said, turning away again.

“OK,” Porthos said and Aramis felt his own eyes fill with tears at the broken note in Porthos' voice.

 


	12. Chapter 12

“You look worse,” Athos commented, tilting his head.

Aramis hadn't moved from where Porthos had laid him on the sofa the previous day.

“My leg is filling out, my stomach is healed, my arm is fine,” Aramis replied, shrugging.

Athos had seated himself in the armchair normally reserved for Aramis and frowned at his friend. The normally sparkling black eyes seemed dull and he'd been silent for the entire hour Athos had been there.

“Not what I meant. What's going on with Porthos?” asked Athos bluntly.

“Why? Is he OK?” asked Aramis quickly, trying to push himself to a sitting position.

“You didn't kiss him,” Athos said, his voice softening.

In all the years Athos had known his friends, they were always linking arms, leaning on each other's shoulders, always touching. Around people like Athos who knew of their relationship, they never hid their constant small kisses, contacts. That morning, however, when Porthos left, he'd just awkwardly said goodbye without approaching Aramis' side.

“I can't,” Aramis murmured.

“Something happened,” said Athos quietly.

“It's that obvious?” Aramis asked, bitterly, slumping back against the sofa.

“You aren't yourself. You've been injured before but this has changed something between you,” Athos said quietly.

“It's made me face a few home truths about myself and the way I treat him,” Aramis murmured.

Athos didn't have a chance to reply as there was a knock on the door. At a shrug from Aramis, Athos rose to answer it and found d'Artagnan mid-yawn.

“Hi Ath... Ah... Athos,” he said, his jaw cracking with the effort.

Athos stood aside to let d'Artagnan enter and closed the door behind him. He smiled as the Gascon kicked his boots off and dropped heavily into Porthos' armchair, tucking his legs up under him.

“Can't sleep?” Athos asked, retaking the chair.

“Just wanted to see you two instead. Haven't seen you since your stitches were taken out,” d'Artagnan answered, nodding at Aramis.

“So?” the marksman asked quietly.

“You're one of my best friends,” d'Artagnan answered, shrugging. “Saw Porthos on his way to the palace and he seems flat, somehow. I figured once you were cleared to be left alone, he'd be chatty and happy.”

“He's not?” Aramis asked.

“He's not,” Athos confirmed. “When he left he looked in such pain.”

Aramis felt another wave of frustration when his eyes filled with tears again. Since he'd woken up in the garrison he'd felt constantly on the verge of tears but he had no right to be upset by it. He'd brought it all on himself but now it was hurting Porthos as well?

“Do you think I should move out?” Aramis asked.

“Why? The two of you don't like this place any more?”

“He means moving out and leaving Porthos here,” Athos explained.

“What? That's stupid,” scoffed d'Artagnan.

“Is it?” asked Aramis, helplessly.

D'Artagnan nodded without answering, yawning again.

“I can't keep hurting him,” Aramis whispered.

D'Artagnan pulled himself to his feet and had crossed the space to Aramis within seconds, despite how tired he was. He sank to the floor and sat by Aramis' head.

“What to hell is going on?” he asked, his voice gentle despite his words. “Neither you, the Captain, the Doctor nor Porthos will tell any of us what's going on. We don't even know why they took you.”

“You don't?” asked Aramis.

Athos winced as he watched his friends. Aramis was normally the most verbose and eloquent of the group. To see him reduced to this quiet confusion made his heart ache.

“No. Nobody told us. Porthos knows, I guess, but nobody else. We'd been assuming it was just that mad bitch wanting Porthos back and trying to kill his best friend but that doesn't account for...” d'Artagnan trailed off.

“For the torture,” Athos finished bluntly.

“I don't know how to talk about it,” Aramis said quietly.

“You just open your mouth and say things?” d'Artagnan suggested.

Aramis chuckled weakly but even as he did so, tears began to trickle from his eyes. He flinched when d'Artagnan reached up to wipe them away and took a deep breath.

  
  


  
  


  
  


“Porthos?”

Porthos blinked and looked round. Brujon was riding beside him and staring expectantly.

“What?”

“I asked how 'mis was doing.”

“Oh. Sorry. He's alright. Stitches out of his arm already, leg filling out. Still probably gonna be off for the rest of the summer,” Porthos replied.

“Ah. He looked really bad when you came out of that cellar with him,” Brujon commented.

Brujon was an old soldier, only a few years younger than the Captain. He'd been instrumental in refining Porthos' brute strength when he'd joined the Musketeers and he could still tell when Porthos was hiding something. Porthos didn't reply, however, and just looked up as they rode through the gate into the city.

“You go on home, lad. I can tell the Captain all he needs,” Brujon said.

Porthos frowned and shook his head. He mumbled something about needing to get the horses back and they gradually made their way to the yard. He hated himself for avoiding going home. Since he had pulled Aramis out of that cellar he'd refused to be more than arm's reach from the man. Making sure he was OK had been the only thing he cared about but now that he was home...

Porthos sighed heavily. It hurt his heart to think of Aramis so defeated. The man was normally bright and vibrant, carefree almost. Since this happened, though, it was like someone had pulled out the light inside him. He felt his fists clench involuntarily at the thought.

It was his fault though, wasn't it? I mean if he didn't want the things that had upset Flea, she never would have taken him. Was that why he'd suddenly distanced himself from Porthos? Was it now so unbearable for Aramis to be near the person who had caused all this? Was the acts themselves? The power, the pain? Having experienced them done in the worst ways, was Aramis now reluctant to do them. Not just that... Didn't want to be near someone who still did? Even the idea of control seemed to be outside of Aramis' wishes now. It couldn't really be over, could it?

Porthos looked up in surprise as someone called his name. They'd almost reached the garrison but d'Artagnan was walking quickly to them.

“Alright?” Porthos asked, dully.

“You need to go home,” d'Artagnan said firmly.

“Nah. I gotta go get the horses settled,” Porthos said evasively, turning away.

“Go on,” Brujon said, quietly.

Porthos didn't reply to either of them and just trotted through into the yard. It was another hour before he ran out of imaginary tasks to do and had been veritably chased out of the yard by Serge who threatened to cook him into that evening's stew if he didn't get out of everyone's way.

With nowhere else to go, he trudged home reluctantly. He couldn't put his finger on why he was so disinterested in returning home. He supposed it was to do with seeing Aramis so defeated. There was an uncomfortable churning in his stomach that told him it was something more. The way he'd said it didn't matter about the rug was sticking in his mind. He hadn't called him by anything but his name. Was that it, then? Was the power part of their relationship over?

Porthos wasn't entirely sure how to cope with that thought. He needed Aramis like he needed air but he needed **his** Aramis. The Aramis that kept him in line with a look. The Aramis that made his heart sing and lit his soul on fire with one word. The Aramis that made him feel safe and indomitable all at the same time. The Aramis that not only accepted that deep call of submission but answered it. The Aramis that called him **his**.

Porthos wasn't sure he could remember what it was like to not belong to Aramis. It had been over five years. Even before then he'd been the natural leader. His charisma, his natural verve and ego. What now? Was Aramis really turning his back on that part of their relationship? He needed to know for certain because if he was, Porthos would definitely kill Flea. It was only Aramis' plea for him not to that had stopped him.

Without realising he'd started up the stairs to their home before he'd had a chance to stop himself. He knew his boots could be heard on the stairs and so he couldn't change his mind. Instead he pushed his shoulders back and strode through the door, showing much more confidence than he really felt.

 

 

 

 

Aramis had been daydreaming from his place on the sofa. He was remembering a trip the two of them had taken together the summer before last. It had rained the entire time and one evening, despite Porthos' polite objection, Aramis had decided it would be romantic to make love in the warm summer rain. It had been a disaster as the ground they were camping on was waterlogged and they'd ended up with thick, wet mud in places it should never be found.

Porthos hadn't complained once. He'd had a big, beautiful grin on his face that clearly meant “told you so” but he hadn't voiced that thought at all. He'd simply washed them both off and held Aramis while the latter shivered and complained about Mother Nature ruining his holiday. The vision of Porthos' wide grin above him while water dripped through his hair was one that Aramis would never forget.

He'd just accepted it. He'd known they were going to get covered in mud. He'd known they were going to get cold. He'd just accepted it, though. Is that what Aramis had done to him? Destroyed the man so much that he'd go along with anything, even against his better judgement, just because Aramis said he wanted to do something.

Why was that suddenly bothering him? That had been their reality for years, now. Aramis had known it, had used it, had accepted it. Porthos had known it as well and never minded. He welcomed it.

Aramis hated the idea that his control of Porthos was giving people the wrong idea. He'd never meant it to be degrading or humiliating. He'd only ever wanted to build Porthos up and make him his best self. Clearly that wasn't how it was coming across. The way she'd kept saying Aramis made him beg. He'd never intended to make him some crawling animal like that. Never. If that's what people thought, it would have to stop now.

Aramis' heart jumped into his throat at the sound of boots on the stairs. He felt the familiar rush of excitement that he always got when he was about to see Porthos but this time it was tinged with something like dread. That look of horror when Porthos had realised what he'd allowed Flea to do still haunted Aramis and he would not have Porthos lower himself to be soiled by a tainted man.

Hearing Porthos come through the door, Aramis forced himself to stay still and not look at him. Everything screamed at him to look towards Porthos but he forced himself to continue gazing at the ceiling. He heard Athos startle awake from where he was sleeping in one of the armchairs and greet Porthos in his soft voice. He waved a hand when Athos said goodbye and swallowed hard when the door closed behind him.

 

 

Tension seemed to fill the apartment. Aramis could always tell where Porthos was, like a magnet, and knew he was unloading his weapons and doublet onto the stands. He was desperately trying to think of something to say when Porthos strode over and dropped into his armchair, opposite the sofa Aramis was occupying.

“You alright?” Porthos asked gruffly.

Aramis couldn't keep ignoring him and turned his head to reply. He stopped dead when he saw Porthos' legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles crossed on the rug and boots still on.

“Boots,” he said faintly, his normal eloquence failing him.

In the five years they'd lived here and had that rug, Porthos had never once slipped up on that rule. Even when drunk as a skunk or even a few times they come home injured, he'd never once forgot that rule. Seeing them there, ostentatiously stretched out was like a punch to the gut. His eyes travelled up to Porthos' face and there was a hard, defiant, unfriendly look on his face.

 

 

 

Porthos felt a rush of anger at Aramis pointing out his boots. It was him that had said they didn't matter. It was him who had been pushing Porthos away.

“Doesn't matter,” he said harshly, the challenge obvious in his voice as he repeated Aramis' words from the previous day.

There was a flash of something in Aramis' eyes and he felt his heart soar in hope. There was his owner. He was still there, he did still want Porthos. He did still care about him and how he acted. He braced himself eagerly for the metaphorical leash yank.

“Yeah,” Aramis murmured and returned to staring at the ceiling.

All the air seemed to have escaped Porthos. He couldn't catch his breath. He had the terrible feeling of falling and he clutched the arms of the chair for support. He realised now he'd never quite believed Aramis would do it. All day he thought he'd accepted Aramis was effectively leaving him but now, with that one non-committal sound, Porthos realised he'd been clinging to hope all day. He'd never really believed Aramis would just give him up like that.

 

 

Aramis didn't know what to do. He'd never experienced open defiance like this. There had been occasions where they'd both been irritable or tired and Porthos had pushed too far but never open disobedience like this. He was at a loss what to do.

Should he do anything? Wasn't this what needed to happen? The dominance and submission part of the relationship needed to end. Seeing it there in front of him, though, he realised it was all part and parcel of who he was, who Porthos was. Clearly Porthos didn't feel the same, though. Was this Porthos choosing to end the relationship?

 

 

“Done with the rules then?” Porthos asked when he finally regained control of his voice.

He winced internally at how calm his voice his sounded. Even to his own ears he sounded cold and matter of fact. He supposed it was probably just what Aramis wanted. If he had to put Porthos back together at the same time he was trying to leave him and heal his own various injuries?

He felt his stomach drop further when Aramis nodded silently. There was a creeping cold stealing over his skin and his entire body was screaming at him to hit something.

Flea. There was a target he could aim himself at. Hadn't he said to himself that it was only Aramis' demand that had stopped him thus far? That was clearly gone.

“Then there is something I need to do,” he said.

 

 

Aramis turned his head sharply at the cold note in Porthos' voice. He watched in horror as Porthos rose to collect his doublet and weapons again. He'd watched Porthos in battle often enough to recognise when he was steeling himself for a kill.

It was something they shared. They were willing enough to kill in the heat of battle but whenever they set out with the purpose of killing someone, they all struggled. It felt less like being a soldier and more like a murderer. He, himself, wore the same hardened expression when his skills as a sniper were called upon.

“Porthos,” he said, before he could stop himself. He flinched at the hopeless look on his lover's face when Porthos turned his head to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“Where are you going?” he asked, helplessly.

“Doesn't matter,” Porthos said coldly.

Aramis felt himself physically recoil, the words hitting him like a slap in the face. He watched in a horrified silence as Porthos strode out the door.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and Aramis come to terms with the end of the power exchange part of their relationship.

Athos approached the yard, deep in thought. He hadn't slept much while looking after Aramis and his neck was quite painful after sleeping in the chair. He'd known Aramis for years and there was still something he wasn't telling them. After d'Artagnan had managed to get him to talk them through what had happened and the why, Athos had been left with an uncomfortable feeling. Not only had something else happened he wasn't talking about, Athos had been left with the feeling that something was just... wrong.

A small smile turned his lips up as d'Artagnan fell into step beside him as they passed through the gates.

“You look tired,” the Gascon commented.

Athos just nodded and the pair made their way to the table to help themselves to some bread. He raised a hand to Serge across the yard who nodded in reply.

“So.. I know I've had problems accepting them two the way they are but I'm worried about him just throwing it all away,” d'Artagnan said around a mouthful of food.

Athos took a long draught from his cup of wine before he answered.

“You mean Aramis?” he asked.

“Yeah. I think he's blaming himself for the whole thing and is going to try and throw all that out,” d'Artagnan replied, cutting himself more bread while still chewing his previous mouthful.

“Have you not eaten?” asked Athos, amused.

“No. I rushed back to Bonacieux's, shaved, spoke to Constance briefly about Aramis and came back here.”

Athos didn't answer but d'Artagnan knew he'd been heard. He watched Athos in silence while Serge arrived and dished them both a bowl of stew. In the few months since they'd become intimately involved, he'd found Athos' silences less and less upsetting and he'd also felt less and less need to fill them. He was halfway through his stew before Athos spoke again.

“I think you're right,” Athos said, finally.

He'd been thinking while d'Artagnan ate. It was the tone of finality in the way Aramis spoke of how their relationship style had made Flea take him. Like it was a thing of the past. That's what had bothered him.

“Well I asked Constance to go and check on them both,” d'Artagnan said, lowering his voice. “I don't think Porthos really knows what to do. If I'm right and Aramis is rejecting him, I don't know if either of them are going to look after themselves so I asked Constance to take them some supper.”

Athos smiled and turned to his own bowl of food.

“Good idea,” he murmured.

  
  


  
  


  
  


“Porthos!” Aramis shouted again.

He heard the door at the bottom of the stairs slam and cursed loudly. He should never have frozen like that. His skin felt like it was on fire all of a sudden. The thought of Porthos going to kill someone, especially someone who was his friend, made him see red. The idea that Porthos, his beautiful Porthos, would do such a thing on his account... No. That wouldn't happen.

The Court. He must be going to the Court of Miracles again. Aramis pulled himself to a sitting position, grimacing as the movement pulled on the still healing skin on his body. The pressure on his thigh wound sent a deep stabbing agony up and down his leg. His boots were still just within arm's reach and he gritted his teeth against the pain as he leaned forwards to reach them. He could taste blood in his mouth as he bit down on his cheek while pulling his boots on haphazardly.

Gradually Aramis made it to a standing position and while he could hardly bear weight on his bad leg, he was at least upright. He staggered to the hat stands and swore again. His weapons were missing. He shook his head angrily and realised it hadn't even occurred he hadn't seen them since he was captured. He felt slightly sick at the thought that someone else was using them. He limped into their bedroom and felt furious at himself all over again when he saw the spot on the floor Porthos knelt each night before bed. He was a ridiculous idiot for thinking he could ever be happy without Porthos that way.

With a shout of pain Aramis managed to lay on the floor and reach under their bed for the bag laying there. It was essentially a start up kit for a new life for the couple should their illegal relationship be discovered. Aramis reached into the bag. Among other things it held changes of clothes, a small amount of money, some papers with new identities and the items Aramis was looking for. Two sets of weapons.

It took a superhuman effort for Aramis to pull himself back up to his feet. His thigh was throbbing with every beat of his heart but the thought of Porthos walking back into that place without him gave him more than enough strength to hold himself up.

He staggered back into the living room and located his coat. He realised with a pang Porthos must have made sure his beloved coat was located and brought home. His Porthos, always looking out for him. Always silently serving him. How selfish and heartless Aramis had been to throw that back in his face.

Aramis slumped sideways against the wall to do his coat up, strapping the slightly unfamiliar belt around his hips. He edged his way to the door, using the wall for support but by the time he reached it, he was shaking with the pain. He wasn't ready for this. His leg was definitely not ready for this.

He wasn't going to be able to reach Porthos but he could find someone who would be able to. It was only a short walk to the yard. A walk he made every single day. Less than ten minutes. He could make his leg carry him that short a time if it meant protecting his Porthos. The first step he tried to take down the stairs was a mistake. Stepping down with his good foot he'd almost overbalanced and toppled down them. He froze in place, slumped against the wall with his leg trembling beneath him.

Stepping his bad leg down first, he managed another few steps before he had to stop again. Sweat was running down his face with the exertion. He didn't have time to waste like this if Porthos was heading into that place. He couldn't imagine Porthos managed to get him out without hurting at least a few people. Aramis supposed the begrudging welcome Porthos had in the past would be gone now.

By the time he managed to reach the bottom of the stairs, he was light headed and trembling all over. He could no longer feel the exact point of the injury on his leg. It was radiating pain up and down his entire side, now. As he pulled himself away from the wall to open the door, his knees gave out and he slumped to the floor with a shout of pain.

  
  


It was slumped on the floor, panting in pain, that Constance found him less than ten minutes later.

“Aramis?” she gasped.

“Help him,” Aramis moaned.

Constance hurriedly placed the basket she was carrying on the ground to feel Aramis' forehead.

“You're burning up,” she said. “D'Artagnan told me you shouldn't be up yet. Where do you think you're going? And on your own, no less? Where's Porthos?”

“Gone. Going to get hurt,” Aramis panted. He gripped Constance's arm tightly and together they got him sat up slightly, leaning back against the steps.

“You can't go running off after him like this,” Constance scolded. “Back upstairs with you and I'll find the others.

While Aramis dearly wanted to argue with her, his collapse had made it quite evident he could not continue to find Porthos.

“Go and get them first,” he said, firmly. He settled his elbows on the step behind him and shifted until foot was flat on the ground, lifting his thigh free and clear of the floor. “Please, Constance. Porthos could be in danger. Go,” he said when Constance hovered in the doorway uncertainly.

  
  


  
  


“Are we staying at theirs again?” d'Artagnan asked, drawing his sword.

The yard had emptied as everyone gradually made their way home or back to their quarters. Athos and d'Artagnan were down for guard duty on another party the following night and had volunteered for night guard duty tonight since they were going to be up all night either side.

Athos drew his own sword, preparing to start practising and shook his head as he did so.

“The point was to have time together,” Athos murmured, barely opening his mouth.

D'Artagnan grinned widely and raised his sword invitingly for a few seconds before the grin slid off his face. Athos turned to where d'Artagnan was looking to see Constance rushing through the gates.

“Athos! D'Artagnan!” she called, seeing them.

“Aramis?” Athos asked, immediately sheathing his sword and walking forwards to meet her.

“He needs Lemay?” d'Artagnan asked, referring to the Doctor the Musketeers used. The same Doctor that had seen to Aramis when he had been rescued.

“Maybe. It's Porthos. He's... I don't know,” she said, her voice falling to a small, frightened one as the two men surrounded her.

Athos gripped her gently by the shoulders and d'Artagnan's hand rested on her back.

“What happened?” asked Athos.

  
  


  
  


Aramis couldn't stand the waiting any more. He had pulled himself upright again and had just made it out of the door into the street. He was leaning on the wall heavily and had made it less than five paces before he'd been forced to stop again. If Porthos had gone to the yard, Constance would find him but there was a nagging painful feeling in his stomach that Porthos wasn't heading there.

There were alleys and pathways that Porthos knew and had shown Aramis. By the time Constance had reached the yard and Athos had come back to him and then everyone had gone to find Porthos, the man would be there and be deep enough in the others wouldn't reach him. Aramis' only hope was to use the alleys Porthos had shown him and reach him first.

Glaring up the street he decided he would give himself ten deep breaths before starting again. He had to find Porthos. Gritting his teeth he began to count.

  
  


 

Porthos strode furiously down the street. His mind was just too busy to think clearly and he was just letting his feet make their way down familiar alleyways. The only thought he could focus on was to kill Flea and every single person that had helped her hurt Aramis.

What then? Did he just go home, blood on his hands, and move into the smaller bedroom? Let the pretence that they were just sharing an apartment become the reality? The very thought made his heart ache. To see Aramis every day and not be able to belong to him like he should.

He felt himself growl at the thought. It was too painful. That moment. That awful, heart breaking moment. It was just agony. That nod. That silent confirmation from him. Did he really deserve it just for not batting Flea away?

Porthos stopped in the street and slumped down on some steps. How could Aramis **do** this to him? 

He wrapped his arms tightly around his waist to try and stop the painful throbbing in his stomach. He'd always had more faith in Aramis. Even if this was to end, he'd always thought Aramis would be there to help him through it. There had been occasions where Aramis had been wounded and he'd made sure Porthos was protected. Yet this time he'd just thrown Porthos out?

The Musketeer leaned forwards and pressed his head into his hands. What was he supposed to do, though? If Aramis was his Master, then his choice to end the relationship and to discard the rules was final. Yet if he was throwing it away, Porthos should get some say, shouldn't he? At what point did the authority fall away enough for Porthos to have an opinion.

He could feel tears filling his eyes at the thought. Aramis had never ever stopped him having an opinion. He'd never refused to take Porthos' wishes into account. Aramis had never just stormed along without asking Porthos his opinion.

Why was he doing it now? Was Porthos being a terrible person by letting him do it? Letting him throw it away? Should Porthos be refusing and sticking with him? Was he just being selfish by letting his own fears of rejection get to him? Was he seeing more than there was?

No. No he wasn't. Aramis had refused to kiss him. Refused to come close to him. Aramis was still so disgusted by Porthos sharing a bed with Flea.

Besides... He had to leave when his Master told him to, didn't he? But he didn't tell him to leave. He just said they were done with the rules. Was Porthos disobeying by leaving? What was there to disobey?

Porthos groaned and wrapped his arms around himself again and drowned in thoughts.

  
  


  
  


“He's not here,” Athos said, turning his horse.

They'd galloped across the city and reached the entrance to the Court before Porthos.

“He should be here,” d'Artagnan said, frowning. “Constance would have taken ten minutes to get to us and it's taken us about the same to get here. Porthos can make this walk in fifteen at the most.”

Athos nodded and began to trot back towards Aramis and Porthos' home. They reached it after a few minutes with no sign of Aramis. Constance was stood in the doorway looking panicked.

“He's not here,” she said, shrillly. “I left him right here,” she added, pointing at the stairs.

Athos leaped off his horse and ran up the stairs. D'Artagnan slid off his own and quickly tied them both to a post. He ran a hand soothingly down Constance's back before racing up the stairs after Athos.

He found the older man on his knees in their friend's bedroom.

“Aramis has taken weapons,” Athos said, rising to his feet.

“He can't fight yet,” d'Artagnan said in horror.

“We **have** to find them,” Athos said, pushing past him.

 


	14. Chapter 14

“Um, 'scuse me,” a small voice said.

Porthos looked up with a jolt. There was a small dark-skinned boy standing in front of him.

“Hi,” Porthos said, gruffly. He'd been hunched over, trying to stop his insides aching and make his mind slow down and hadn't heard the little figure approach.

“You're musket?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Porthos said, dully. He didn't care enough to correct the child.

“There's musket down there. He's fell down and won't get up,” the little voice said.

“Show me,” Porthos said, standing immediately, heat flaring in his chest. Somehow he knew exactly which 'musket' would be following Porthos down this alley.

 

 

Aramis was laying on his back in the alley. The pain had flared up and down his side again but he wouldn't let it stop him this time. He'd become utterly delirious and could only think of reaching Porthos. He pushed himself along the ground with his elbows, eyes closed, seeing only Porthos' face.

 

 

Porthos stopped dead as he rounded the corner and saw Aramis laying in the street. Not again. He couldn't find Aramis near to death because of him again. He ran the length of the alley and skidded to a halt beside him.

“Aramis?” he whispered sinking to his knees.

“I found you,” Aramis answered, smiling broadly.

The marksman's eyes were closed but the smile was wide.

“I found _you_ ,” Porthos replied.

“Take me home,” Aramis murmured, curling onto his side towards Porthos.

“Love you,” whispered Porthos, leaning over and brushing his lips against Aramis' ear.

“I love you too,” Aramis said, smiling still. “Home now, please.”

 

 

 

 

D'Artagnan was trotting along the street down from their home for the third time when he came across Porthos carrying Aramis.

“Is he...?”

“I'm fine, d'Artagnan,” said Aramis, although he didn't lift his head from where it was resting against Porthos' shoulder. “We're going home.”

D'Artagnan dismounted and walked along beside them, leading his horse. He caught the small smile on Porthos' lips and found himself smiling too.

 

 

 

 

Constance was still pacing nervously around the front of their house when the trio came walking down the street.

“Oh Aramis! Thank goodness! You stupid man! What were you thinking, rushing off like that?!” she exclaimed, hovering around them as they walked. “And you!” she added, slapping Porthos' arm. “He got it into his head you were in danger and that's what made him go running off you bloody idiot!”

“Ahh... Madame Bonacieux... Your voice is so beautiful, even when it's scolding us,” Aramis said, opening his eyes for the first time since Porthos had found him.

“Stupid man,” she repeated, quieter this time.

“Yes. Yes, we are,” Aramis agreed, closing his eyes again.

She made to follow them up the stairs but d'Artagnan held her back and together they watched Porthos mount the stairs.

 

 

 

 

Porthos walked straight to the sofa and gently lay Aramis upon it, in the same position he'd been occupying for the last few days. He sat on the floor by Aramis' head and removed his boots, setting them on the floor beside the rug. He lay his doublet on his armchair behind him and smiled nervously at Aramis who was watching him drowsily.

“That was stupid,” Porthos said.

“Perhaps. The things we do for love,” Aramis murmured. The small smile was still on his face as he gazed at Porthos who looked shy. “What were you planning?”

“To kill her,” Porthos said, shrugging.

“What made you stop?”

At this Porthos looked away, frowning slightly.

“I'm not sure. There was a part of me that knew you didn't want me to. I wondered if I was disobeying by doing something clearly against your wishes but then I didn't think I had anything to obey any more and I just... I was so confused,” Porthos said, his voice growing quieter.

“So was I,” Aramis said sadly. “I couldn't bear the idea that my dominance of you landed us in this mess and if it was ever making people think you were weak, I couldn't abide that.”

“You know better than that, surely?” Porthos said. He raised his hand to brush the infuriatingly beautiful hair out of Aramis' face.

“I do but... The times...” Aramis trailed off before taking a deep breath and carrying on. “I was trying very hard to stay calm and not retaliate but every time she hinted that I was taking advantage of you I bit back.”

“And she... I'm guessing it was those times she was... harsher?” Porthos asked tentatively.

That look of pain rippled across Aramis' face again and Porthos guessed he'd stepped on something.

“What did she do to you, love?”

“There was a moment where I told her I wouldn't leave you until you told me to and she left in a temper. When she came back she seemed to want something other than getting me to leave you,” Aramis said. He kept wanting to look away but Porthos needed to know.

“The morning I found you?” asked Porthos, frowning.

“I don't know,” Aramis answered honestly. “I lost track of time.”

“I think it was me,” Porthos said, his stomach dropping. “All night she tried to... make something happen between us. That's what I thought you were angry about. That I slept in her bed.”

“I wasn't angry at you, Porthos,” Aramis said. “I didn't think you'd want to... after...”

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments. Porthos needed to know what had happened but didn't want to press Aramis, whose eyes had grown slightly wild. For his part, Aramis was struggling to keep a handle on the feeling that there was a collection of snakes twisting and trying to escape from his stomach.

“So... from my point of view I was trying to stay calm and play nice with her. She was feeding me and I thought I just had to last until you guys arrived so I was trying to solve my problems with my words not my fists,” Porthos said. A smile ghosted across Aramis' face as his often repeated advice came to Porthos' lips. “All night she kept trying to cuddle with me and while I made her keep her distance, I didn't actually push her away. At one point I woke up to her stroking my arse and when I told her to stop she nearly stroked... I told her it would be rape.”

Aramis felt the squirming discomfort intensify. It was bad enough what she'd done to him but the idea she'd tried to do it to his Porthos as well was genuinely sickening.

“Go on,” he said, quietly.

“Then she left me alone but I woke up and she was curled up against my back. I pushed her away, she got angry and left. She was gone for a long time and I fell asleep. When I woke up I told her she'd never have my will and she stormed out. That's when I knew she had you. I found you a couple of hours later,” Porthos explained, unable to stop himself wincing at the memory of finding Aramis.

The marksman just nodded, thoughtfully.

“That seems to mean something to you,” Porthos pointed out.

“I told her the same thing. That your will is your own and wouldn't be hers,” Aramis answered.

Porthos watched Aramis' face carefully and kept his voice steady when a sickening realisation hit him.

“My rebuttals ended badly for you, didn't they? Each time I told her to get lost she took it out on you?”

“Perhaps,” Aramis said.

“There's something else,” Porthos pressed, keeping his voice gentle.

“I don't know what time or what happened to make her... but... at one point I woke up and...”

Aramis trailed off and closed his eyes. Porthos hand found his on the sofa gave it a gentle squeeze. When he went to let go, Aramis clutched it tighter and resumed speaking.

“We were alone and I was nude on that table... She... touched me and when my body didn't respond she... took her pleasure from my mouth,” Aramis said, finishing in a whisper.

“Is that why you wouldn't let me kiss you?” Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded without opening his eyes.

“You didn't want me to have to touch your mouth after she had?”

Aramis nodded again and felt tears prickling behind his closed eyes.

Porthos leaned forwards and kissed Aramis gently, lingering his lips against Aramis'. The hand not holding his lover's came up to stroke his hair. When he lifted his head, he stroked Aramis' cheek gently, swiping his thumb across Aramis' mouth.

“Sire, if you don't want to kiss me because **you** don't want to, that's fine. Don't make that decision for me because you think I will feel a certain way,” Porthos said, settling back onto his bottom.

Aramis felt tears beginning to trickle from his eyes as he gazed at Porthos.

“I just felt so dirty and thought you'd feel the same,” he whispered.

“You're an idiot,” Porthos replied.

Aramis laughed, a sharp almost hysterical bark that seemed to startle them both.

“Something occurred to me in the alley,” Porthos said, squeezing Aramis' hand. “Until this, you've never once made a decision for me or for us as a pair without asking my opinion. Don't start now.”

Aramis nodded slowly and gave Porthos a weak smile.

“I mean it,” the big man said, squeezing his hand again.

“I know, Porthos,” Aramis said letting his eyes drift closed.

“I mean about changing the relationship as well,” Porthos said, his voice growing harder.

Aramis winced slightly and nodded again.

“I just hated the idea that I had made you look weak,” he said softly.

“Look, Aramis... You can be honest. If you genuinely need to change the relationship or if you can't cope with this kind of power shift then we can talk about that but you can't just... This is my relationship too,” Porthos said.

Aramis was gazing at their clasped hands. Porthos' thumb was rubbing idly over the back of his hand.

“I don't want to change a thing,” Aramis whispered. “I just don't know if I'm up to it at the moment.”

“What made you come after me?”

Aramis blinked at the sudden change in topic.

“I couldn't have you kill someone in my name.”

“But it wasn't your decision any more, right?”

Aramis' features softened into a smile.

“I see your point,” he murmured.

“It's part of you, Sire. It's part of me. Openly defying you felt so wrong I ended up frozen in that alleyway. For you it prompted you to nearly kill yourself and end up in a heap there as well,” Porthos said, grinning.

“Mhmm,” Aramis said, closing his eyes, the small smile on his face again. “The boots moment made my heart stop.”

Porthos laughed and pressed a kiss to Aramis' hand.

“Mine too. Sleepy, Sire?”

“Yes, mi vida. Take me to bed?”

“Leg first,” Porthos said.

Aramis sighed and forced his eyes open. He watched drowsily as Porthos removed his boots. He couldn't stop himself tensing when Porthos began to unlace his breeches. Porthos paused and glanced up at Aramis' face.

“Her hands wandered,” Aramis whispered by way of explanation.

Porthos stopped and rested his hand on Aramis' waist. The other came up to stroke his hair and he smiled down at Aramis.

“I might belong to you and you might control me, Sire, but you are **my** love,” he said quietly. “You are **my** best friend, **my** lover, **my** sun and **my** Master.”

Aramis nodded but lifted his hand to clutch a handful of Porthos' shirt. Neither of them commented while Porthos slowly drew his trousers down. Loosening and rolling up the leg of Aramis' braies, Porthos found the bandage was stained red where Aramis' movements had aggravated it.

“I think Lemay needs to look at this before you settle for sleep,” Porthos said, chewing his lip.

“Fetch my kit and we can look at it,” Aramis said, poking at the skin around the wound.

“Yessir,” smirked Porthos.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The subject of Flea comes up again.

“Would you have really killed her?”

Porthos hummed in thought and leaned back against the wall.

After redressing the wound under Aramis' careful instructions, he'd carried Aramis to bed. He was now sat up against the wall with Aramis reclining between his legs and they were eating a small meal.

“I don't know honestly,” Porthos said quietly. “Would you have really ended the ownership part of us?”

“No,” Aramis said, nuzzling back against Porthos.

Porthos smiled and leaned down to press a kiss into Aramis' hair.

“The second I saw those boots on my rug, I knew it was all wrong. It's part of who I am, Porthos. It's who we are,” Aramis continued.

“I agree. I didn't know what I was doing without it. I love our life together too much,” Porthos murmured.

There was silence while they finished eating and Aramis yawned heavily. He obligingly leaned forwards so Porthos could extract himself and clean away their plates.

“I'm sorry,” he said, as Porthos re-entered their bedroom.

“For what?” asked Porthos, frowning slightly.

“Several things,” Aramis said, smiling with a slight tinge of embarrassment.

Porthos sat on the edge of the bed and took Aramis' hand when it was held out to him.

“I'm sorry that I left you alone and let her pet psychos get to you. I'm sorry that I gave up in that cell. I'm sorry that I let her...” Aramis trailed off and the words stuck in his throat.

“Don't apologise for that,” Porthos said quietly. “We'll work on what happened to you but I won't accept you apologising for that any more than I would accept you apologising for your leg.”

Aramis took a deep breath and nodded.

“You gave up?” Porthos asked.

“Well I felt like I was dying and it became a somewhat welcome option,” Aramis said softly. “I get that it was stupid so I'm sorry.”

Porthos winced but nodded his understanding.

“More than anything, though, I am so sorry for ever trying to push you away mi vida,” Aramis said, quietly.

“I'm so sorry I let you,” Porthos said.

“Let me?” Aramis asked.

“Well yeah. You were clearly overwhelmed and making dumb choices. I should have protected you and stopped you,” Porthos said, shrugging.

Aramis frowned in thought for a moment but Porthos started speaking again before he could reply.

“Whenever I'm in a temper or just being grumpy you stop me from doing anything stupid. I should have done that for you as well,” Porthos explained.

“You had a lot on your mind,” Aramis said, inclining his head gently.

Porthos merely shrugged but his face broke into a smile when Aramis rolled his eyes.

“Let's say we both judged it badly,” Porthos said, softly.

He leaned forwards slowly, trying not to react when he saw Aramis stiffen at his approach. He pressed his lips to Aramis' forehead and lingered there, his hand moving up to cradle Aramis' face. When he pulled back he was pleased to see a small smile on his lover's lips.

“We'll go entirely at your pace,” Porthos whispered.

Aramis nodded gratefully and didn't fight when Porthos rearranged him to lay down.

“Sleep Sire,” he murmured.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Porthos was reluctant to leave the next morning but Athos gave many promises he'd be looked after. He'd arrived with Doctor Lemay in tow who had redressed his leg after the excursions of the previous day.

“I appreciate you keeping me company,” Aramis said, once the door was closed behind Porthos and the Doctor.

Athos didn't reply, simply nodding.

“Where is our young Gascon?” Aramis asked.

“Asleep, I imagine,” Athos replied.

“I'm sorry that you can't spend the day with him,” Aramis said.

“I might love him, Aramis, but I love you, too. You and Porthos are my best and oldest friends. To take care of you is just as important,” Athos said simply.

“I don't need taking care of,” Aramis said quietly.

“I would have agreed yesterday but the blood stained bandage I saw Lemay remove makes it hard,” Athos said softly.

Aramis chuckled.

“I couldn't let Porthos run off on his own and get hurt,” he said.

Athos nodded but turned in his chair to look intently at Aramis.

“What are we going to do about her?”

The marksman tensed immediately and stared back at Athos, his mouth dry.

“We have to act. The regiment is getting restless. There have been several altercations because emotion amongst the men is running high. The Captain needs it sewn up. The Cardinal is trying to use your abduction as reason to resume his campaign of destruction. Even the King has heard about it and is pressing Tréville about what will be done,” Athos explained.

There was a knock at the door and at a nod from Aramis, Athos answered it to find d'Artagnan again.

“You should be sleeping, puppy,” he murmured.

D'Artagnan shrugged and kicked his boots off, curling up in Porthos' armchair without a word. Athos followed him with a smile but quickly resettled in Aramis' chair, looking back at the man on the sofa.

“So something needs to be done about her but we won't make any moves without yours and Porthos' input,” he said quietly, as if this interruption hadn't occurred.

“Why is everyone so affected?” asked Aramis.

“Because everyone loves you,” answered d'Artagnan. He'd tucked his legs up under him and was resting his chin on his knee.

“Perhaps not the Cardinal,” Athos conceded.

“'praps not,” shrugged d'Artagnan. “Most of us do, though. The damage done to you has upset and unsettled a lot of people. People need to see her pay.”

“It's more complicated than that, though,” Athos said, nodding at d'Artagnan's words. “We won't be able to officially arrest her because she will be asked why she did it.”

“Have you discussed this with Porthos?” Aramis asked.

“No. I'm fairly certain he would simply suggest ripping her limb from limb,” Athos said drily.

“Explain to me why that's a bad thing,” Aramis muttered darkly.

“You don't mean that,” d'Artagnan said.

“Of course I don't,” Aramis replied, his voice laced with exhaustion. “Let me think on it. You two go to bed. I'll call if I need you.”

D'Artagnan nodded and slid bonelessly from the chair, tugging Athos' hand. The two of them retired to the smaller bedroom and Aramis frowned up at the ceiling.

What were they going to do? He was still very averse to the idea of killing her. Her actions had come from a place of hatred and violence. None of them needed more of that in their lives.

If Athos was right, however, that his and Porthos' capture had smashed the somewhat delicate truce they'd managed to establish after the de Mauvoisin debacle then something would need doing. He, himself, had killed several men on his search for Porthos and could only imagine Porthos had ended just as many on his search. He couldn't deny that he and Porthos were pretty central characters in the regiment 

On the other hand, if she were to be arrested, Aramis couldn't imagine her going quietly. She had more than enough information to make a credible accusation of homosexuality. While Captain Tréville knew the truth, he was likely to defend his men. They would be forever suspected, though. They wouldn't likely be able to live together any more. They'd have to be especially guarded in public. Even if the Captain did decide to lie about all he knew and deny their relationship, their lives would be forever changed by it.

In a perfect world, Aramis would just like to forget the whole thing. It was going to be hard enough to put behind him as it was. The idea of being forced through dealing with her, whether officially or not, just made everything hurt all the more.

Aramis leaned his head back against the sofa and sighed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now writing as I post so I can no longer guarantee daily updates, I'm afraid :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four friends discuss what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been so absent recently... Work has been... Is there a stronger word than stress? I'm now posting as I write so it might be longer waits between chapters but hopefully I'm back on track now! Thank you all for sticking with me!

Porthos bounded up the stairs to their apartment, excited to see Aramis. When he considered how reluctant he'd been yesterday evening, he chuckled to himself. How ridiculous the pair of them had been to try and deny their relationship. He opened the door and his eyes went unerringly to Aramis, still laying on the sofa. He saw his lover's eyes light up and felt a peace settle around him. Things were good.

“Hiya,” he said, grinning.

A chorus of hellos met him as Athos and d'Artagnan were both still present. He gave a loud sniff and the smell of a stew cooking met his nose.

“Pepper?” he asked as he unloaded his weapons.

“Yeah, I think so. Serge turned up a while ago with a bowl,” d'Artagnan said, getting to his feet.

In a few short minutes the four friends were gathered around the rug tucking into their stew. Athos and d'Artagnan were still settled in the two armchairs and Porthos had joined Aramis on the sofa, the marksman's lower legs across his lap.

Once they'd eaten d'Artagnan had tidied their bowls away and Porthos had quietly begun to massage Aramis' feet. A silence fell over the room and Porthos looked up. All three faces were watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“The woman,” Athos said.

Porthos' hands stilled on Aramis' foot for a moment and he cast a wary glance at his lover who smiled tightly back.

“We have to decide what to do about her,” Athos continued, watching this exchange.

Porthos frowned and resumed rubbing Aramis' foot, his thumbs moving in firm, circular motions.

“Why?”

“Because what happened to Aramis and yourself has had further reaching consequences than just the four of us,” Athos said gently.

Porthos continued to massage Aramis' foot, his face lined deeply. The fury he'd been keeping controlled since having Aramis back safe was beginning to bubble again and he was using the familiar motions to keep himself calm.

Getting no response from Porthos, Athos continued.

“The community in the Court are somewhat unsettled. The men in the regiment are very rattled and, like d'Artagnan and I, would like some measure of vengeance. There have been several occasions where the normal snide remarks or jeering have boiled over into actual confrontations,” he said quietly.

“Everyone's angry about them taking us,” Porthos said thoughtfully, his hands still moving on Aramis' foot. “It won't just die down?”

“I don't believe so, no,” Athos said softly.

“Why do you want it to?” d'Artagnan asked, incredulously.

“We just want it to be over,” Aramis replied for the both of them. “It has... shaken us more than we expected and perhaps more than we'd like to admit.”

“The faster we can move on from it, the better,” Porthos said quietly.

“She can't just get away with it,” d'Artagnan blurted.

“It's not your decision,” Porthos said, scowling. His hands had stilled on Aramis' foot

“It might not be purely yours,” Athos said, his voice still soft.

“Why not?” asked Porthos sharply, his voice growing angry again.

“Justice must be seen to be done,” Athos murmured.

“So your appearance matters more than our wishes,” Porthos growled.

“Peace, mi vida,” Aramis said quietly. “Would we have rested if Vadim had escaped after hurting d'Artagnan? We didn't accept Bonnaire's _success_ ,” he continued, hissing the last word.

“I accepted Marsac,” Porthos said flatly.

Something silent passed between the lovers on the sofa. Athos watched as Aramis' eyes narrowed for a second before softening, his eyebrows raising. Athos' gaze flicked to Porthos in time to see a stiff nod and he heard as the man blew an audible breath out through his nose.

“If we arrest her, though,” Porthos said, his voice far more controlled. “Won't she just tell everyone everything about us?”

“That's our concern,” Athos said, nodding.

Porthos resumed massaging Aramis' foot and looked between everyone.

“So what are you proposing?” Porthos asked.

“Well we sort of wanted to ask you,” d'Artagnan said, shrugging.

“You know her the best,” Athos explained. “You saw her and might know better than the rest of us how she'll react.”

“Given what she did to Aramis and how close I came to killing her, I can't imagine she's going to be particularly interested in helping us,” Porthos said, shrugging.

“I think, for all her faults, she genuinely loves you,” Aramis said quietly. “She may have been horribly misguided and incorrect but she did it thinking it was for the best.”

“No,” Porthos snapped. There was a tense silence for a few seconds while Porthos took a deep breath and again blew it out through his nose. “She did it for selfish reasons. She didn't do it for love. She did it to turn me into her idea of what she wants.”

“Be that as it may, she **thinks** she loves you,” Aramis amended.

Porthos shrugged, unable to deny his assertion. He switched his hands to Aramis' other foot.

“Perhaps we should arrange a meeting,” Athos said quietly.

“No,” Porthos and Aramis said in unison. Porthos' voice was laced with the anger he had been fighting to control but it was the first time Aramis' voice had sounded sharp all day.

“Why not?” asked Athos, calmly.

“I won't have him within a mile of that woman if I can help it,” Porthos growled. “She won't ever get near him again.”

Athos nodded and turned his gaze to Aramis.

“She lost any right to come near Porthos the moment she sent people after him,” Aramis said, his voice softening again.

“For men who criticised me for insisting justice be done whether you wished it or not, you seem quick to make decisions for each other on the same subject,” Athos observed.

“I'm allowed to do that,” Aramis said, smirking.

“Yet the only reason you're doing so is for Porthos' own protection. He seems more than capable of facing her,” Athos said quietly.

“He's mine. I don't want her to come near him,” Aramis said, his voice hardening again.

“After what she did, she won't ever come within touching distance again,” Porthos growled. “You know you don't know everything. I do. She won't **ever** touch him again.”

“I'm not proposing she does,” Athos soothed.

“I don't care,” Porthos growled.

“Porthos,” Aramis snapped.

Another deep breath.

“What **are** you proposing?” Porthos asked, his voice shaking slightly.

“A meeting. The four of us meet with her and four of her associates. On neutral ground. Even outside the city if we have to. We talk to her about the city's need to see justice done,” Athos said.

“Thus informing her associates we have something to hide?” Aramis asked.

“At the same time as making sure she knows that her hiding in the Court will continue to place the others who live there at risk,” Athos explained.

“Which they will hear,” d'Artagnan said, nodding to himself.

“Which they will hear,” Athos agreed.

“That I think we can do,” Aramis said slowly. “What's our goal, though?”

“The Captain simply wants the city to see a measure of success over the court. Perhaps a cessation of their thieving activities for a month or two?” Athos suggested.

“That doesn't punish her,” Porthos said, shaking his head. “That would hurt the people who live there more than it would her.”

“Perhaps if they were complicit in keeping the two of you, they deserve a little hardship,” d'Artagnan said, bitterly.

“A month or two of not stealing food would kill innocent people,” Porthos said.

“Innocent,” scoffed d'Artagnan.

“Even if they knew one or both of us were being held there, arguing or telling someone would incur the wrath of their neighbours and reduce the amount of help they get,” Aramis said gently. “If you're already relying on theft and charity to survive, having one or both of them reduced makes survival much less likely. If doing the right thing meant your children would die, would you do it?”

D'Artagnan had no answer to Aramis' question but he did have a new appreciation for how close to the bone Porthos had lived. He surveyed the man sat on the sofa and realised just how far the man had raised himself.

"So what  **do** we do?" he asked.

"I feel it would be in our best interest to actually remove her entirely but I don't know that they'll accept such a thing," Athos answered. "Perhaps a provision of rations from our own stores delivered directly to those in need would relieve the need for them to steal for a while. It would then given the appearance of justice without risking the lives of the innocent."

"I don't believe we have enough to feed the number of hungry mouths residing there," Aramis answered, sadly.

"Even if we did... If we can afford to feed 'em, why wouldn't we do it year round? I won't 'ave the garrison going 'ungry because of us," Porthos said uncomfortably.

"Perhaps Tréville could come to an arrangement about a shorter jail sentence for her. Something shorter than she deserves in order to placate her but some sort of sentence to provide the justice the city needs to see," Athos murmured. "We'll ask Tréville later."

“How do we get her to come to us, then?” d'Artagnan asked.

“We've already made one full scale incursion into the court as a rescue. Given that we will not be seeking one of our own, I can't imagine we will be able to enter it a second time,” Athos said.

“It seems unnecessarily confrontational for us to go **in** en masse if our goal is to get her **out** to mutual territory to talk,” d'Artagnan observed.

“So ideally we need someone to come out to us,” Athos said.

They both turned to look at Porthos, hoping he would have a suggestion about who to approach.

“The one who... the one with the whip,” Aramis said softly. Athos and d'Artagnan both turned to look at him.

“He doesn't deserve thanking, Sire,” Porthos growled, reiterating a point from days ago.

“I wasn't suggesting he did,” Aramis said, mildly. “I was merely going to say she's close enough to Flea to get to her. He's less fanatical than the rest and not cruel for the sake if it. He had no interest in hurting me simply because I'm a Musketeer. I think he's probably the closest to a reasonable person we're going to find in her inner circle.”

Porthos grunted, which the other three knew was his begrudging acceptance of their point.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Porthos finally begin to reconnect.

Another couple of hours and Porthos and Aramis were left alone. Athos and d'Artagnan had departed to discuss their provisional plan with Tréville before their duty at the palace began.

“Mi vida,” Aramis said, breaking the calm silence they'd been sat in for the ten minutes since the others had left.

“Sire?”

“Will you... will you help me bathe, please?” Aramis asked in a quiet voice.

“Of course,” Porthos murmured. “Ready now?”

“Before I lose my nerve,” Aramis admitted sheepishly.

Porthos smiled and squeezed Aramis' foot, still in his hands. He carefully extracted himself from the sofa and in silence he removed the cooking pot from the hearth and replaced it with the water tub from the kitchen.

“Porthos,” Aramis murmured.

“Mm?” Porthos asked, getting to his feet after settling the tub.

“Would you come and kneel for me while we wait?” Aramis asked, an uncharacteristically tentative note in his voice.

Porthos found it slightly unsettling how much the questioning tone made him waver. It took him a few seconds to think through the process enough to realise it was Aramis' way of trying to reassert himself after their wobble. Now it was his turn. In the few seconds it took him to realise, Aramis' face had fallen.

Porthos crossed the rug in two long strides and sank to his knees beside Aramis. He bowed his head and tried to look calmer than he felt. Closing his eyes, he felt Aramis' hand land on his shoulder and it was trembling slightly.

He could feel himself growing angry again at the damage Flea had done to them. Just this simple act used to be second nature. It would instantly calm them both but today they were both so uncertain. They hadn't been able to make it more than a couple of hours without their power dynamic in place and yet stepping back into it felt unfamiliar and frightening. Aramis' long fingers squeezed his shoulder gently.

“Eres mi vida. Cuando las nubes oculten el sol, remember,” Aramis crooned softly.

“I remember, mi sol,” Porthos said quietly.

The hand on his shoulder moved up slightly to cradle his face and Porthos leaned into it. He exhaled slowly and smiled as Aramis' thumb reached around to stroke his lips.

Aramis began to sing the rest of the song softly in Spanish while Porthos knelt in silence, letting the tune wash over him. After a couple of minutes the hand withdrew and the singing stopped.

“Water, mi vida,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos smiled up at him and nodded serenely.

As he moved to test the heat of the water, Aramis watched him. There was his boy again. Calm, devoted, focussed. While he still felt a cold fury every time he thought of how close they came to losing it because of her, he was reassured that the core of who they were couldn't be touched.

He couldn't help the rising feel of panic, however, at the thought of being touched. There was still a great deal of marks on his body and the feeling of shame when he thought of her hands upon him hadn't entirely receded. He'd still barely kissed Porthos since their return and every time he thought of being naked, his memory flashed back to that cell. Waking up defenceless and stripped bare had worked its way into his mind and was hard to eradicate.

Using the thick cloths, Porthos lifted the hot pot of water off the hearth and carefully carried it to their large wooden table. Coming back to Aramis, he saw the uncertainty and panic rising in his lover's sharp black eyes.

“Just tell me,” Porthos whispered, smiling slightly.

Aramis nodded, his face tight. It was a good suggestion. Aramis usually found himself relaxing whenever he was able to fall back into his pattern of ordering Porthos around and this way he would receive no touches he wasn't prepared for or expecting.

“Help me stand, please,” Aramis said quietly.

Together they got Aramis to his feet. He was now able to bear a little weight on his leg but not much and not for long. Porthos' arm around his waist held him up during these steps and they made their way slowly to the table.

Aramis used the arm not clutching Porthos for support to pull a chair out and sat down on it gingerly. After a few seconds of shifting he managed to sit sideways slightly, leaving his wound clear. He smiled gratefully as Porthos stepped back slightly, clearly waiting for instructions.

“Thank you, my love,” Aramis said. A smile and a nod from Porthos was the only answer.

He pulled his suspenders off his shoulders but had to pause and force himself to take several deep breaths before he was able to pull his shirt over his head.

Porthos waited in silence as Aramis fingered the wounds he could see on his chest and stomach. They were all healing well and he was pleased to note none seemed infected. It still made his heart ache to see Aramis so tentative and almost jumpy but he could understand why. It felt like a long time before Aramis raised his head.

“Will you wash my back?” he asked. Porthos stepped forwards but paused when Aramis suddenly spoke again. “Please.”

Porthos took up a cloth and began to swipe across Aramis' back, keeping his movements gentle but perfunctory. As he reached Aramis' waist, he could feel the man relax slightly as the warm water soothed him.

“You have beautiful manners, Sire, but you don't need to say please to me,” Porthos whispered.

Aramis inhaled suddenly and Porthos froze for a second, unable to see his lover's face.

“Continue,” Aramis said quietly, almost experimentally.

Porthos smiled and quickly resumed. His movements grew slightly firmer as Aramis relaxed and he began to rub with more intent. It took several long minutes but gradually the dried blood was all gone and Aramis' skin had a slightly pink glow. One or two of the thin whip lines had begun to weep with blood slightly and Porthos dabbed at them.

“Thank you, mi vida,” Aramis murmured. “Now the front, please.”

Porthos turned to hide his grin. He knew **that** please had been habit and not a genuine request. He also knew Aramis was quite capable of cleaning his own front but was enjoying the service.

Another few minutes of silence passed while Porthos made sure Aramis' stomach and chest were clean. He followed Aramis' quietly spoken instructions to make sure his underarms were clean. When he cleaned Aramis' arms properly, Porthos couldn't resist pressing a kiss to the back of his hand and felt a shiver of homecoming when he received a disapproving glare.

“I didn't ask for that,” Aramis murmured as Porthos moved to the other arm.

“I didn't know I was forbidden,” Porthos replied, licking his lips.

“I am instructing your movements,” Aramis replied softly.

Porthos nodded his understanding and this time did not repeat the gesture, simply dropping the cloth back into the bucket and stepping back.

“Good boy,” Aramis hummed and Porthos shivered again.

Aramis struggled to his feet but Porthos made no move to help, thought his instincts were screaming at him to do so. This wasn't out of the ordinary. While Porthos normally had a great deal of freedom, Aramis occasionally tightened the metaphorical reins and forbade him from doing anything without express permission.

“Good boy,” Aramis repeated. They shared a smile as they both recognised Porthos' obedience overriding his instincts to go to Aramis.

The marksman silently undid his breeches and took a breath as his hands began to tremble. He could feel Porthos' eyes on him as he let his breeches fall. He had to remind himself this was just Porthos and before he had a chance to get too nervous he pulled at the laces on his braies and they, too, dropped to the floor.

“From the feet up,” Aramis whispered, his mouth suddenly dry.

Porthos rinsed his cloth and sank to his knees silently. He worked on Aramis' legs in tandem, washing one ankle after the other, moving up to wash one calf, then the other. By the time he reached the thighs, Aramis' bad leg was beginning to tremble.

“Skip my wound. We'll do that in a moment,” Aramis said, his voice shaky. “Hand me the cloth.”

Porthos did so and remained on his knees. He could feel Aramis' tension and lowered his eyes to the floor.

“Gracias, mi vida,” Aramis whispered.

The measure of privacy the movement gave him allowed Aramis to breathe slightly. He took comfort in the peaceful, still form of Porthos' kneeling at his feet and carefully washed himself thoroughly. It was the first time he'd been this exposed since leaving the cellar. Even passing water he'd been able to manage himself since he'd been more lucid and able to manage it simply between the opening of clothes.

Task completed, Aramis sat down, carefully arranging his thigh to be free of the chair. He fought down the urge to clutch at his clothing as the movement drew him closer to Porthos.

“My kit please,” he said in a whisper.

Porthos rose to his feet, took the few steps to where Aramis' kit lay on the bureau, returned and settled immediately onto his knees. He smiled without looking up when Aramis' hand rested in his hair, his thumb stroking slightly.

He simply rested there in silence, hearing and feeling Aramis moving. His eyes had closed when Aramis touched his hair and he left them closed while Aramis tended to his leg. Hearing a sudden hiss of pain he frowned slightly.

“Sire?”

“I'm fine, mi vida. Just very painful,” Aramis said quietly.

“May I see, Sire?” Porthos asked.

“Yes, mi vida,” Aramis replied after a pause.

Porthos looked up and smiled reassuringly at Aramis who was still looking very nervous before turning his attention to the man's thigh. He swallowed thickly seeing the wound. Aramis had removed the padding Doctor Lemay had put in place so Porthos could see the angry red hole in Aramis' leg.

“Oh love,” he whispered.

“It's looking better actually,” Aramis said brightly.

Porthos raised his eyebrows sceptically and Aramis chuckled. He stroked Porthos' face and smiled softly down at him.

“It doesn't seem to be closing,” Porthos said, frowning.

“That's what the packing is for,” Aramis explained. “The muscle underneath needs to heal upwards before the skin closes over the hole.”

“Just scary,” murmured Porthos.

“Yes,” Aramis said. “No infection, though. Hush now.”

Porthos felt that same shiver of homecoming and pressed his lips together. He watched without rising off his knees as Aramis soaked some bandages in the still warm water and redressed the wound.

Aramis surveyed the silent man while he wrapped the last bandage around his thigh and tied his neat knot in the side, tucking it under just so.

“You're so beautiful, mi vida,” Aramis said quietly.

Porthos looked up at Aramis pleadingly. He always found it difficult to accept compliments, especially when they were ones that he felt Aramis embodied more than himself.

Knowing this, Aramis gave a small shake of his head, denying the silent request to answer. Smiling to himself when Porthos dropped his eyes back to the floor he smoothed the bandage down. He leaned down and pulled his braies back up his legs, standing for a moment to do them up properly. He swayed slightly and Porthos looked up suddenly.

“I'm fine, beautiful boy. Just sore after tending to it,” Aramis soothed. “Help me to bed.”

The concerned lines on Porthos' face smoothed out instantly. They hadn't shared a bed since before Porthos had been taken, Aramis having remained on the sofa. He rose to his feet and took a hesitant step towards his lover.

Aramis held his arm out and Porthos quickly stepped close to wrap his arm around the man's waist. Together they made their way to the bedroom in a comfortable silence where Porthos lit the single candle on the wall and Aramis carefully lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Take care of the house please,” Aramis said quietly, letting go of Porthos.

He watched Porthos disappear back into their living room and listened to him moving around, dousing the fire, the candles. His lips turned into a small smile when he heard Porthos tidying his medical kit away. The man never could resist tidying up.

He hated himself a little for being so nervous about being back in bed with Porthos. It was certainly nothing to do with their relationship but he still couldn't help the nerves at being so exposed. He'd felt a flash of guilt putting his underwear back on when they normally slept skin to skin. Even with his torso on view he could see the bruises and cuts left by the whip and knew they were worse on his back. He looked up as Porthos re-entered the room and smiled when he immediately began to strip.

An old ritual, Aramis watched calmly as Porthos, without drama or flourish, finished undressing and slipped back to his knees beside the wall. Aramis sighed softly at the sight. He was utterly unaware how much his serenity washed over Aramis in these moments.

“So beautiful,” Aramis repeated in a whisper after long minutes of simply watching him. “Stand up for me.”

Porthos got to his feet and stood for a moment. He could feel himself slipping into that slightly foggy head space where he simply followed Aramis' directions. He felt somehow guilty, though, and struggled against it, shaking his head slightly.

“Mi vida?” Aramis asked, seeing the movement.

“Fine, Sire,” Porthos said quickly.

“Why did you shake your head?” Aramis asked, his voice still soft.

“Staying focused, Sire.”

“I don't wish for you to be focused,” Aramis said gently.

“I thought... I feel...” Porthos mumbled, his brows knitting as he tried to find the words.

“You still feel a distance?” Aramis guessed.

“No Sire. I just... I want to take care of you,” Porthos said, still frowning.

“You have, mi vida. I'm here. I'm safe. I'm healing well and I'm now settling my heart with my boy,” Aramis said softly, the smile evident in his voice. “Close your eyes and stay silent,” he added quietly.

Porthos took a deep breath and nodded, obeying instantly. Aramis left him stood in silence for a few seconds, the candlelight playing over the dark skin of Porthos' shoulders, and simply admired him.

“One step forwards,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos complied and couldn't help the slight panic when he heard Aramis stand. His instincts were at war, torn between the obedience keeping him in place and the need to be there in case Aramis wavered.

“Shh. Calm. Still,” Aramis murmured. “Good boy.”

Porthos exhaled slowly with the praise. He could feel Aramis circling him and gradually his breathing slowed, the heavy blanket of ownership settling on him. Long fingers brushed against his skin, stroking down his back and tracing the line of his hip.

“So strong,” Aramis murmured into the silence. “So graceful. So peaceful. Elegant.”

Porthos let the words fill him and he began to sway slightly. Aramis' voice was barely above a whisper and had taken on a hypnotic, lyrical quality that was rapidly making the rest of the world fall away.

“My pleasing, pliant, obedient boy. So powerful and yet utterly mine,” Aramis continued as he circled Porthos' body.

While he didn't tell Porthos what he was doing, he used this opportunity to trace the bruises he could find lingering on his partner. He'd been told Porthos was just bumped and bruised but this was his first opportunity to see for himself. Porthos' skin grew more and more scarred and marked as the years went past and yet rather than Aramis considering them imperfections, he felt each one simply told the story of his lover's bravery and resilience.

Satisfied with his inspection, Aramis circled round to stand in front of Porthos again.

“Don't move,” he whispered.

Aramis licked his lips nervously and then, leaning up slightly, pressed them against Porthos' lips. He felt the man start in surprise but then his lips curve in the unmistakable smile he knew so well. Trembling slightly, Aramis kissed his boy gently for just a couple of seconds and then backed away.

“Thank you,” Aramis whispered.

Porthos smiled wider, his eyes still closed. The instructions to remain silent hadn't been lifted so he hoped his smile would communicate enough for Aramis to understand. Long fingers stroked his cheek lovingly and he knew the message had landed. When the finger stroked the scar over his eye, trailing from his cheek up and over his eyebrow, Porthos opened his eyes.

“Bed,” Aramis murmured, his own face curling into a smile, unable to resist the way Porthos just seemed to radiate happiness.

In silence Porthos settled into bed, back against the wall. After dousing the candle and plunging the room into darkness, Aramis settled in his arms, his back to Porthos' stomach, the position luckily leaving his injured leg in the air.

“Hold me a little tighter please,” Aramis whispered.

As the strong arms tightened around his chest and waist, Aramis sighed in relief. He couldn't quite deny the fear that still visited him when he closed his eyes. The memory of every time he woke up being slightly closer to dying was still vivid. Finally, here with those familiar arms around him, he felt safe.

He felt Porthos nuzzle into the back of his hair and smiled to himself. It was one of the memories he'd clung to in that place. He wasn't sure Porthos even realised he did it but it comforted Aramis all the same. He trailed his fingers over the hand pressed against his stomach and shivered when a small kiss was pressed to the back of his neck.

“Mi vida,” he breathed.

“Sorry Master,” Porthos whispered in the dark room.

“Again please,” Aramis murmured. He shivered again when those warm lips pressed to his skin again, lingering this time.

“Are you OK?” Porthos asked. He'd felt Aramis shiver and his entire body was beginning to tremble slightly.

“You're so gentle,” Aramis said in a small voice.

Porthos nuzzled into the mass of wavy hair, wincing at the thought. Aramis hadn't been handled gently or even carefully during that time.

“I don't do it because you're fragile, Master,” Porthos murmured.

“I feel it,” Aramis admitted, tracing a random pattern on the back of Porthos' hand.

“You aren't, Master. I don't think I could ever use the word Master with someone who was,” Porthos said quietly. “I'm sure you can think of a few moments I've been less than gentle with you and you've survived every one,” he added, smiling into Aramis' hair.

The marksman huffed out a small laugh and leaned back more heavily into Porthos' embrace.

“Might be a while before I can go there again,” he answered sadly.

“I wasn't suggesting it, love. I just meant if I ever believed you were fragile I wouldn't have done it with you,” Porthos murmured. “Besides... Do you think I would ever submit like this to someone who was made of glass?”

Aramis chuckled again, stronger this time. Another kiss to the back of his neck made him shiver again.

“I still feel it,” Aramis said.

“That's just fine, Sire,” Porthos murmured, his lips brushing Aramis' skin.

“You don't mind that I'm... reticent about...”

“Not at all,” Porthos answered, not letting Aramis finish the thought. “I love you and we will take all the time you need. Just don't be upset or misunderstand if...”

“If?” Aramis prompted when Porthos didn't finish.

“If I respond to your body,” Porthos said, swallowing.

“I won't, mi vida. I think we both know your body responds to me whether you want it to or not,” Aramis said, squeezing his hand around Porthos'. “And I think we both know it's my decision if things go further.”

“Saying things like that won't help,” Porthos murmured, lips pressing against Aramis' neck again.

Aramis chuckled into the dark again and gave his hand another squeeze.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could write their pillow talk forEVER.


	18. Chapter 18

Aramis woke suddenly, his eyes flying open. He didn't move, finding himself instantly recognising where he was for the first time in what felt like weeks. He had rolled mostly onto his stomach but Porthos' arm was still beneath his body. He could hear the deep rumbling snore beside him and tossed his head to look over.

Porthos was sprawled on his back, his mouth open. The snore was rattling the shutters slightly and Aramis smiled to himself, watching the man sleep. Dawn was just breaking and hazy sunshine was streaming in and playing over the planes of Porthos' naked body.

Aramis watched him for several long minutes. He wanted to lay beside Porthos' body and be held but it would place too much pressure on his bad leg. He shifted his leg slightly and nudged against Porthos'. With a snort and a grunt, Porthos shifted slightly and the snoring stopped. Aramis giggled to himself, the pillow muffling the sound.

Stretching, he felt the sunlight playing across his own skin as well and basked in it, peacefully. He found himself daydreaming about the trips he and Porthos had taken. While they did tend to love travelling in the summer where there are longer days and less to carry, most of his favourite memories were ones where they curled up together, close to the fire, snuggling for warmth.

A groan from Porthos made him smile. He waited expectantly and felt the arm beneath him twitch. Sure enough, a moment later, Porthos rolled over, seeking Aramis' body. Another memory he had clung to in that cell came to life when Porthos' arms tightened around him slightly and he pressed his face into Aramis' hair, inhaling deeply.

“Master,” Porthos murmured.

Porthos rolled away enough to smile sleepily at Aramis.

“Good morning, mi vida,” Aramis said, returning the smile.

“You're so gorgeous in the sun,” Porthos said, his eyes running up and down Aramis' body.

“I was thinking the same of you, my boy.”

Porthos grinned and turned towards the window.

“Still got an hour or two,” he said, assessing the time before he had to get up for his duty.

Aramis nodded and shifted properly onto his stomach, releasing Porthos' arm from under his body. Porthos, too, shifted, turning onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. He ran his hand over Aramis' back.

“OK?” he asked.

Aramis nodded and closed his eyes peacefully, enjoying the feel of Porthos' hand roaming over his back. Even the slight disturbances where the welts and marks were didn't bother him this morning.

After a few minutes of silence he spoke again.

“Did I ever say thank you?”

“For what, Sire?”

“Coming to get me,” Aramis answered.

“I'll always come to get you,” Porthos said. “I was sat there trying to play nice and telling myself over and over that I just had to keep her at bay until you came for me. The second I realised she had you, wild dogs couldn't have kept me from you.”

Aramis exhaled suddenly, the growing fierceness in Porthos' voice comforting him.

“I mean it, Sire. I would walk over hot coals for you and woe betide anyone who tries to keep you from me,” Porthos said, more calmly. “You'd do the same for me. You did come for me, Sire. The only reason you were held is beca-”

“Hush,” Aramis said sharply. He waited a beat to make sure Porthos had stopped before continuing. “You've misunderstood. She didn't take you and then decide to hurt me when I came looking. She took you as bait.”

“Bait?” Porthos whispered, looking down at Aramis in horror.

“Yes. It was a trap for me,” Aramis confirmed.

“And you still think she had noble or loving reasons for doing it?” Porthos asked his voice shaking in anger.

“Trying to protect you?” Aramis suggested. “Or convince me to leave you free?”

“No. The more I think about it the more I'm sure she was trying to punish you for giving me a home and when it was clear I wasn't going to leave you, simply kill you,” Porthos said, his voice lowering to a growl.

“Shh, shh. Peace, mi vida. Calm, calm,” Aramis soothed, reaching out to stroke Porthos' chest. He felt a shock of warm air as Porthos exhaled in a rush.

“I'm just so angry every time I think of someone trying to hurt you,” Porthos said, his voice still unsteady.

“People are always trying to hurt us,” Aramis said quietly.

“But... I trusted her,” Porthos admitted, his hand resuming its stroking across Aramis' skin. “I thought she was my friend.”

“Mi vida,” Aramis murmured.

“How could she do this to us? To me? I always had her back. I **always** took care of her. We did so much for her. You stitched her arm for God's sake,” Porthos said, heat flaring in his voice again.

“Porthos,” Aramis said, warning creeping into his tone. Another blast of breath passed over the back of his neck as Porthos exhaled.

Another few minutes of silence passed.

“I feel like my temper is so close to the surface,” Porthos said quietly.

“I feel my tears are,” Aramis admitted.

“Are you trying to make me angry?” Porthos asked but his tone was teasing.

“Time, mi vida. I think time is all we need,” Aramis said, thoughtfully.

“Closure,” Porthos said, his thumb tracing one of the worst welts that wrapped around Aramis' waist.

“The meeting should provide that,” Aramis said, hopefully.

“If I don't kill the bitch,” Porthos said, darkly.

“You won't,” Aramis said, firmly.

Porthos sighed heavily and flopped over onto his back, nodding up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow the brimming anger.

With a wince, Aramis pulled himself up onto hands and knees and moved closer. He swallowed his nerves and tentatively kissed Porthos.

Eyes flying open, Porthos froze, unsure what to do. He didn't know if he should respond or not. While not wanting to startle Aramis, he also didn't want to make him feel unwelcome. He settled for simply parting his lips slightly.

Aramis jerked back in surprise and searched Porthos' face, his black eyes darting around. Porthos lay placidly, his eyes warm and inviting as ever but no movement was forthcoming. He dipped his head and kissed Porthos again.

The lips against his were more sure this time and Porthos couldn't stop himself smiling. He felt Aramis' mouth moving against his slightly and he simply lay still, letting Aramis feel his way. It was only a few seconds before Aramis lifted his head but this time they were both smiling.

“Come on, mi vida. Time to get up,” Aramis announced, climbing shakily off the bed.

He swayed where he stood as pain shot through his leg but Porthos was on his feet in seconds and had hold of him.

“I'm so tired of this hurting,” Aramis muttered as Porthos let go.

“It won't hurt forever, Sire,” Porthos promised. He pressed a kiss into Aramis' hair before stepping to the side and guiding Aramis to sit back on the bed.

“I know,” muttered Aramis, grumpily. “Clothes please.”

Porthos nodded and retrieved Aramis' clothes from the living room where they had remained after the bathing last night.

“Porthos?”

“Sire?” Porthos asked, laying the clothes beside Aramis on the bed.

“Do you... I'm sorry that I keep... Would you mind...” Aramis mumbled, trailing off.

“Aramis,” Porthos said, softly. “I am here for you in whatever way you need me. Service, companion, friend, lover... Whatever you need, love.”

“Kneel,” Aramis whispered.

Porthos complied instantly, slipping to his knees beside Aramis' feet.

“You seem to have gotten over your uncertainty,” Aramis said quietly.

“I have,” Porthos agreed. “You're still you and neither one of us has any intention of letting the other go.”

“You won't mind if I... cling to that?” Aramis asked.

Porthos looked up, smiling, into Aramis' face.

“I happily spend my **life** on my knees for you, Aramis.”

“If it's something less of a metaphor more often for a while?” Aramis asked.

Porthos frowned and Aramis stroked his face gently. Porthos always hated not knowing something but as a man who had taught himself to read and write in less than a year, he was always eager to learn.

“A metaphor is when we say things are something else for emphasis. Like you saying you live on your knees. It's called a metaphor,” Aramis explained.

“So... you mean to make me actually kneel for you more often?” Porthos asked slowly.

“Yes, my love. Would that be OK? You won't feel I'm taking advantage?” Aramis asked.

“I don't mind in the slightest, Master. I always love being able to settle at your feet. Just know that I can't... It makes me feel foggy, Sire. If you need me to do it for too long, I might not be able to be... present,” Porthos said carefully.

“I understand, my boy,” Aramis replied, stroking Porthos' cheek again.

He left Porthos kneeling while he stood and dressed. He rested his hand on Porthos' shoulder to keep himself steady and smiled when Porthos tilted his head slightly to nuzzle against his wrist.

Task completed, Aramis sat down on the edge of the bed and gestured with one hand for Porthos to stand. He ran his eyes up and down Porthos' naked body for several long minutes. At this angle the sunlight didn't touch Porthos' body but it did provide enough light that Aramis could admire him. With a jolt of surprise, Aramis felt a mild stirring of arousal looking at him. He hadn't expected to feel even remotely interested for a long time and yet the tall, bulky frame in front of him was simply beautiful.

“Sire?” Porthos asked, uncertainly.

“Hush,” Aramis murmured.

“If you... You're making me-”

“Hush,” Aramis repeated, more sharply.

A quick glance up confirmed Porthos had clamped his lips together and, unsurprisingly, closed his eyes. Aramis could easily understand what it was Porthos was worried about. The thick length between Porthos' legs had started to swell slightly and Aramis found himself tingling slightly at the effect he had on Porthos.

“OK, my beautiful boy. Thank you. You may get dressed,” Aramis said quietly.

He watched as Porthos slowly got dressed, amused by the small pink patches just visible on his cheeks through his beard.

“If I do or say anything that makes you unusually uncomfortable, please tell me,” Aramis said as Porthos held an arm out to him.

Porthos grinned and helped Aramis to his feet.

“Unusually, Master?”

“Mhmm. I think you know a certain amount of discomfort is, shall we say, expected,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos gave another chuckle and the two of them slowly made their way back into the living room. At Aramis' direction, they got him settled in his armchair instead of the sofa.

“That feels better,” Aramis sighed.

“Uh huh. You won't stay there if it hurts too much, right?” asked Porthos, moving into the kitchen to find them some breakfast.

“No, mi vida. Just enjoying feeling like an adult again,” Aramis called.

He smiled when Porthos returned with a small plate of bread and cheese for them both. He pointed at the floor and Porthos settled cross legged at his feet. They ate in a comfortable silence until, just as they were finishing, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

At a nod from Aramis, Porthos rose and opened the door to find Athos, fist raised.

“Such prompt service,” Athos commented.

Porthos grinned and proceeded into the kitchen. Athos smiled over at Aramis, seeing him in his own chair. He turned back to see Porthos shrugging into his doublet and buckling his sword belt on.

Athos kicked his boots off and took a seat in the chair Porthos normally occupied. He smiled as Porthos came to say goodbye, brushing Aramis' hair back and pressing a kiss into the mass of waves. He raised his own hand in farewell and watched the small smile curve Aramis' lips as he watched Porthos leave.

“Don't say it,” Aramis said, turning his gaze to Athos.

“OK,” Athos said, smirking.

“So what did the Captain say?”

“He agrees. A shorter jail sentence is something he can try and swing but doesn't think he'll be able to do anything better than the Chatelet,” Athos reported.

“You were going to suggest the Bastille?” asked Aramis, raising an eyebrow.

“I was hoping to provide a measure of protection for her in custody,” Athos said. “If she knew that her captivity would not result in ill treatment, I believe she would be more willing to submit to it.”

“Not result in ill treatment?” Aramis asked, his voice darkening.

“I thought you understood, Aramis. The time in prison IS the sentence,” Athos said gently.

“That's insane,” Aramis hissed. “Prison is just until a trial or sentence is carried out, not an actual punishment.”

“I don't think so in this case,” Athos said, shaking his head.

“So she'll just... spend some time in a cell, being fed regularly and then what... swagger off back to them?” Aramis asked.

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“I thought the point was to be seen to be doing justice? Just shuffling her away and out of the public eye for a few months and then letting her go doesn't seem exactly.. overt.”

“Do you feel you're straying towards vengeance?” Athos asked.

Aramis opened his mouth to answer but the cool grey eyes simply watched him calmly. He closed his mouth and thought carefully.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “I have a point, though.”

“You do,” confirmed Athos, rising to his feet. “I'll consider it. I'm on duty again after noon so if you don't mind I'll get some sleep now. D'Artagnan is on guard duty this morning and will come back here this afternoon to rest.”

“After which Porthos will be home. My very own parade of Musketeers,” Aramis said, grinning.

“All sleeping ones, I'm afraid,” Athos teased. “That reminds me. I've been hearing excellent things about this book.”

He withdrew a small book, written entirely in Spanish, from within his doublet. Handing it to Aramis he saw a wide, dazzling smile cross the man's face.

“Cervantes Saavedra,” Aramis said, delighted. “Ah! The Exemplary Novels! I've not had a chance to read them, yet.”

Athos smiled and inclined his head.

“You know where I am if you need me,” he said.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the two of them are still frustrated, Aramis finds a way to show his appreciation for Porthos' help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot apologise enough for it being so ridiculously long since my last update. Suffice to say that 2016 did not just take celebrities from us this year and I have had a few very difficult months.
> 
> I am back. I am writing again. Some light hearted or pure smut prompts would be very welcome while I get my groove back.
> 
> To celebrate my return, however, I give you Porthamis smut! :D

Aramis woke up to the sound of the door closing. He looked around, startled. Gradually his breathing slowed and he realised he had been dozing on the sofa.

“Hey sleepin' beauty,” Porthos' voice said from across the room.

“Porthos?” he asked, disoriented.

“Yup, Sire. Was just getting some fresh water from the well,” Porthos answered, brightly.

Aramis shifted and looked over at him. Porthos had paused by the door with their large bucket in hand.

“Just us?”

“Yeah. D'Artagnan just left. I guess it was him and his door slamming that woke you up,” Porthos replied, grinning. His face fell slightly. “You OK, love?”

“Yes, yes. I'm fine. I just... I'm... No,” Aramis said, finishing weakly.

Porthos had kicked his boots off and crossed the rug to Aramis' side in seconds. Kneeling by Aramis' head, he reached up and stroked the hair back from Aramis' forehead. His skin was damp from sweat and Porthos immediately understood.

“Dreamin'?”

“I dread waking up,” Aramis said quietly. “Every time I woke up there things were slightly worse.”

“And here?” Porthos asked, settling back on his heels.

“Everything here is slightly better each time,” Aramis answered, smiling weakly. “Just a bit jarring. What time is it?”

“Bit before eight,” Porthos answered, getting to his feet again.

Aramis pulled himself carefully to a sitting position, silently thanking Athos' insistence they bought a sofa with such high, winged arms. He watched in a contented silence as Porthos moved around, settling the water, putting away some bits of food he'd clearly picked up on his way home. He quickly made them a small plate of bread and cheese each and carried them back to the rug.

The silence continued as Porthos sat on the floor beside Aramis to eat but he could feel it becoming more tense and noticed Aramis was just picking at his food.

“Sire?”

“Hm? Oh. Sorry, mi vida. Just distracted,” Aramis said quietly.

“By what, love?”

Aramis sighed heavily and sat up a little straighter. He smiled slightly at the way Porthos was watching him warily.

“Athos has spoken to the Captain about Flea,” Aramis said quietly.

“OK,” said Porthos, still wary.

“The current feeling is no punishment would be suitable,” Aramis said carefully.

“No... punishment?” asked Porthos slowly.

“Well there's a certain delicacy around punishing her too harshly given the amount she could reveal so the current feeling is imprisonment,” Aramis explained.

“Right... and then...” Porthos said, a frown appearing between his eyebrows.

“And then nothing,” Aramis answered. There was a tense silence in which Porthos' eyebrows seem to have drawn so close together no gap between could be seen.

“So your plan is that she kidnap you, torture you, almost kill you and... hurt you,” Porthos' voice faltered. “With the consequences of such actions being simply... a rest?” Porthos asked incredulously.

“Well they don't feel it would be a rest,” Aramis said tentatively. “They're quite certain it will be the Chatelet.”

“So?” Porthos asked, his temper clearly rising.

“So it wouldn't be the comparitive comfort of the Bastille. She would be deprived her freedom.”

“Yet fed regularly and sheltered.”

“Ask d'Artagnan how the food is,” Aramis countered.

“Feel up to a walk?” Porthos asked.

“A walk?” Aramis asked, startled by the sudden change in topic.

“To the yard. I wanna be part of these bloody discussions,” Porthos muttered.

“Not that far, no,” Aramis answered. “I agree, though. We need to be consulted.”

“Who's reaching out to the whip wielding _fis a putain_?”

“D'Artagnan and Athos have posted a guard outside the Court to track him down.”

“And the _puterelle_ herself?”

“We aren't approaching her directly. Our whip wielder will do that,” Aramis said, watching Porthos' growing agitation.

“So... I'll go in tomorrow and tell the Captain we want him and Athos to talk to us?” Porthos asked, scowling.

“I don't know how much they'll be able to talk to us since I think a lot of the decisions are being made slightly above them,” Aramis said calmly.

“The bloody Cardinal?” Porthos shouted.

“I believe so,” Aramis answered, his voice level but his eyes narrowed slightly.

“Yeah because he cares _so_ much about us that he'll put _lots_ of effort into helping us out,” Porthos snapped.

“He actively _dis_ likes the Court, however. An opportunity to harm their new leader will be difficult to turn down for him.”

“If he knew it would harm us to treat her harshly he'd draw and quarter her until she gave him even more ammunition,” he answered, a loud disbelieving snort accompanying his answer.

“You doubt me?” Aramis asked quietly.

“I doubt him,” Porthos muttered.

“You doubt my ability to keep you safe and protected? You doubt my ability to advocate for our needs? You think I will let that vile woman get away with what she did to you?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Us. What she did to us, Aramis,” corrected Porthos. “I take your point, though. I'm sorry, Sire.”

“No problem. We'll discuss it in the morning before Athos arrives. How was your day?” Aramis asked, smoothly moving them on from the sticky moment.

“Alright, Sire. They're all good. Missing you. Serge is coming over in the morning with Athos and some hot breakfast, apparently.”

“Goodness! What've we done to deserve that?”

“I think he just wants to check on you and see how you are,” Porthos said, a smile crossing his face again.

“Well that will be nice. I'm hoping Athos brings me some more books but I don't really feel I can ask. It seems ungrateful, somehow.”

“Ungrateful? How?”

“I don't wish for him to think that I'm criticising his going to sleep. I would hate for to think I'm asking for things to occupy my mind because he keeps retiring,” Aramis said, frowning.

“Well first of all, I'll be here all day. The Captain has given me a couple of days off. Second, Athos is the one who suggested the books so he understands. Last, I reckon everyone, you included, would prefer to know what someone you're taking care of needs rather than guessing,” Porthos said firmly.

“I take your point,” Aramis said, inclining his head. “So you have the day off tomorrow?”

“And the following two, Sire,” Porthos answered, nodding.

“With any luck this business will be clarified by the time you go back ,” Aramis said, frowning.

“Hopefully,” Porthos said, his expression clouding again.

They continued to pick at their food, neither particularly interested, for a few more minutes before Aramis sighed loudly.

“Sire?”

“My mind is flowing too fast for me to concentrate on any one thing and my leg is extremely painful so I know I can't go anywhere but I'm increasingly restless,” he said, wearily.

“Can I help?” Porthos asked.

“Thank you for the offer but however good your nursing expertise I don't think even you, wonderful, tender you, can magically repair my leg,” Aramis said, smiling slightly.

“Whatever you need,” Porthos said. He leaned over and pressed a light kiss to Aramis' forehead before taking both of their plates to the kitchen, their food barely touched.

Aramis watched him go and smiled when he caught sight of Porthos straightening his boots from where he'd kicked them earlier.

Whatever the woman said about Porthos, there was no way he did anything against his will. He watched the way Porthos' eyes flickered from the plates he'd just put on their tiny kitchen table, the bucket that still stood abandoned by the door and to Aramis on the sofa.

“Want to tidy up, mi vida?” he asked, amused.

“If you don't mind, Sire,” Porthos said, sheepishly.

Aramis nodded once and smiled to himself when Porthos' face split into a wide grin. He watched the bigger man quickly moving around the kitchen, putting their leftover bread away and dusting crumbs away.

He shifted slightly to watch the way he moved. He was unconsciously graceful, even without taking his size into account. The man had the balance and the fluidity of a dancer and yet Aramis was well aware the strength underneath was breathtaking.

This impulse to keep things tidy was definitely not Aramis' doing. He was definitely not making Porthos his servant for his own convenience. Aramis wondered idly whether Flea realised how much work it actually was for him, rather than how hard it was for Porthos. The constant need to keep Porthos on the right track. To push and pull just enough to keep Porthos level and comfortable without him losing his confidence or his serenity.

It took a lot of concentration and it put a lot of pressure on him but Aramis wouldn't change it for the world. The knowledge that he was always there, had so much trust in Aramis and that his deep seated desire to serve was aimed so thoroughly and devoted so ardently to Aramis warmed the marksman to the core.

The devoted, quiet way Porthos was serving him, even now, when they were both still dealing with so much made Aramis want more than anything to show his gratitude but how to do it? The normal way would be to indulge in some particularly intense pain play or sexual encounter but Aramis wasn't entirely sure he could face that just yet.

Giving Porthos a massage crossed his mind but it was with a flutter of irritation that he realised even that was denied him by the damage to his leg. He nodded when Porthos hesitated before picking up the bucket. The grin on the bigger man's face made Aramis' heart melt a little.

He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa while Porthos went to the small square to collect some clean water. While this was a very nice sofa Athos had chosen, his body was protesting. The high arms meant his back was nicely supported but it didn't stop his hips and his neck growing weary of the few positions he was able to sit in. He experimented with twisting his back and shifting his legs slightly and found it eased the pain slightly and he was just rubbing the back of his neck when Porthos returned, heaving the bucket with him.

“Is that your last task, mi vida?” Aramis asked.

“Yes, Sire,” Porthos answered, automatically turning to Aramis. The slightly expectant look on his face made Aramis smile to himself.

“When you are finished, would you come and kneel with me, please.”

“Yes Sire,” came the soft reply.

Porthos took a moment in the kitchen where he forced himself to take a deep breath. He could feel nerves swirling in his stomach, unsure again about how Aramis wanted to proceed. He was conscious of not putting too much pressure on his partner but also making sure he knew he was still able to control Porthos. How to strike that balance?

“Will you bring me my supplies as well, please?” Aramis asked, cutting into Porthos' reverie.

“Yes Sire,” Porthos answered and he exchanged a swift glance with Aramis as he was startled to hear a slight tremor in his own voice. Aramis, however, continued to smile serenely back at him.

Porthos quickly collected Aramis' bag from where it was still sat on the large dining table and slid to his knees beside the sofa, keeping level with Aramis' lap.

Aramis watched Porthos for a few seconds and felt a pang in his chest at how uncertain the man seemed to be. He could almost see the weight on his shoulders and the thoughts rushing in his head. He smiled again and drew a roll of cloth from his bag. Without a word, he leaned forwards and held it up to Porthos' eyes.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the man on his knees and a few moments of hesitation before he bowed his head.

“Good boy,” murmured Aramis as he began to wind the bandage around Porthos' head, blindfolding him.

With each turn around his head, Porthos could feel Aramis wrapping it slightly tighter. It was only a matter of seconds until those long practised fingers were tying a small neat knot just behind Porthos' ear. The comforting tightness meant Porthos couldn't open his eyes, even if he wanted, to try and see through the cloth.

“Master,” Porthos breathed.

“Shh,” was Aramis' response. Once he'd received a small nod from Porthos, he continued. “Remove your shirt.”

Porthos complied, his hands shaking slightly. He wasn't sure Aramis was ready for anything sexual but it seemed to be heading that way. He wanted to check on him but could already feel the heavy, warm feeling of surrender surrounding him and filling his senses. As he dropped the garment to the floor beside him, he shook his head slightly to keep himself alert.

“Turn around,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos did so, awkwardly shifting on his knees until his back was to Aramis, settling his bottom back on his heels. He shivered involuntarily when familiar fingers ghosted across his ribcage and then up his spine. The hand cradled his neck, the thumb rubbing small soothing circles against the nape. Without conscious thought, he bowed his head again, arching up against the digit rubbing firmly against him. The fingers withdrew but Porthos didn't move. He heard Aramis moving and couldn't stop himself tensing when he heard a small grunt of pain.

“Shh,” Aramis repeated.

Porthos nodded once and took a deep breath, forcing his body to relax again. The noise was explained when he realised Aramis' feet were on the floor, either side of his own body.

“Wrists please,” Aramis said quietly.

Porthos complied before he realised what he was doing. He shuddered slightly when he felt Aramis tying another bandage around his wrists, quick sure movements binding them tightly together at the small of his back.

“Master,” Porthos said uncertainly.

“Shh,” Aramis said for the third time. He began to run his hands up and down Porthos' bound arms as he continued speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can see you trying to look out for me and I can see you holding yourself together in order to lighten the burden on me. While I appreciate the thought, my boy, I wish to be the boss today.”

“You are, Master,” Porthos protested quietly.

“I have asked you to shush. That's enough speech for now,” Aramis admonished gently. “Shuffle backwards please,” he added when Porthos nodded his understanding.

The larger man felt almost light headed with this sudden shift. He hadn't expected to be in a position like this for some time and could already feel his body responding to the erotic position he was suddenly in. His wrists tugged unconsciously at the cloth and he had to bite his lip. The long, beautiful limbs of his lover framed his body, his vision was taken from him and his wrists being behind him left him feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Strong fingers laced into his hair and began to massage his scalp gently. This time he didn't bite his lip and a small sigh escaped him.

“Good boy, mi vida. Relax. No need for words or thought. Just feel, querido,” Aramis crooned softly, lowering his head close to Porthos' ear. “You're my beautiful boy and will do as I say. You will simply follow my instructions and feel what I wish.”

Porthos' head had bowed, obediently following the pressure of the massaging fingers and couldn't seem to find the strength to nod. The fog of obedience was thick around him and he heard a soft groan that it took him a moment to realise came from him.

“Good boy,” Aramis whispered.

The marksman licked his lips slightly nervously as he felt a stirring in his own groin. He had intended this to be entirely about Porthos as a reward for his service but it appeared to be turning them both on far more than expected.

He moved one of his hands to the back of Porthos' head and gently gripped his curly hair, tilting his head back. His other hand cradled Porthos' face from behind, the thumb stroking the line of cloth covering his eyes, caressing the small mark of his prominent scar, just peeking from below the bandage.

Moving his hand, he roamed gently, but possessively, across Porthos' face. He traced the line of his nose, stroked across his cheekbones, smoothed his moustache and beard and finally used his long index finger to part the remarkably soft lips.

As he pressed the tip of his finger against Porthos' lower lip, he felt the man instinctively wrap them around the digit.

“Open only,” Aramis whispered. He had to bite his own lip when Porthos' mouth instantly fell open slightly.

The finger moved into Porthos' open mouth and began to stroke his tongue slightly and the man felt himself harden. This simple act had made him feel impossibly vulnerable and open. The light headed feeling was back and he was grateful for a slight tightening in his hair from Aramis' other hand.

After a few moments of possessive investigation, wherein he'd stroked the insides of Porthos' cheeks, the roof of his mouth, along his teeth, Aramis withdrew his finger and used the tip of his finger to gently close Porthos' mouth again.

He trailed his finger gently down the exposed column of Porthos throat and flattened his hand across the expanse of his chest.

“You're so beautiful. Part your knees slightly,” Aramis whispered into his ear and Porthos felt his breathing hitch slightly. There was a reassuring tightening in his hair for a moment and he was grateful for the grounding motion. Once he'd settled, he obeyed and felt the material of his breeches pulled tight across his growing arousal.

Continuing his slow yet sure movements, Aramis stroked his hand across Porthos' pectorals in turn, purposefully trailing the tip of a finger across each nipple. Releasing Porthos' hair, Aramis' second hand joined the first and he spent long minutes stroking in wide, smooth motions across the chest and ribs of his lover.

“You will do as I say and only as I say,” Aramis murmured.

Despite the slightly floating feeling Porthos had, he could hear the small note of hesitancy in Aramis' voice and, while he couldn't quite make it to speech, he pulled himself together enough to nod once.

“Up on your knees,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos was grateful for the hands that wrapped around his biceps and held him steady as he shuffled the necessary amount forwards before raising himself up so his thighs were vertical.

He began to tremble slightly as Aramis' fingers ghosted across the now very prominent bulge in his breeches. A flutter of panic rose up in him as he worried Aramis was pushing himself but the hands retreated and wrapped around Porthos' bound wrists, squeezing gently.

“Relax and feel,” Aramis reminded him.

He smiled as he watched Porthos take a deep steadying breath and the tension slowly leak out of his shoulders. Once he was satisfied, he shuffled himself forwards as far as he dared and placed one possessive hand on Porthos' stomach, splaying his fingers wide and pressing firmly to pull his lover back slightly.

The long fingers of his other hand began to travel gently over the clear definition of Porthos' arousal and he had to close his eyes against the wave of desire that hit him. Now was not the moment to rush into things, though. Instead he slowly undid the laces on Porthos' breeches and drew the two sides of material apart. It took long moments of careful adjusting to get the material down over his hips but eventually Aramis succeeded, leaving Porthos wearing nothing but his braies from the knees up.

“So hard,” Aramis murmured, his own voice thick with arousal as he trailed light fingertips over the line of Porthos' cock through the thin linen of his underwear.

Porthos was positively dizzy now and knew why Aramis' hand was so firm against his stomach as it was the only thing stopping him from swaying where he knelt. The touches on his groin were maddeningly light and Aramis' instructions not to move were just making him more and more aroused. His hands flexed in their bindings and his eyelids fluttered beneath the tight cloth. The lack of give in either restraint shot like a bolt directly to his cock where the feather light brushes were winding him up even further.

Aramis had to close his eyes for a moment as his mind suddenly flashed back to the possessive way Flea had touched him. He felt a wave of nausea and his body went cold.

“Mi vida?” he whispered uncertainly.

“Mi sol,” Porthos breathed. He leaned his head back to nuzzle against Aramis.

Despite his previous instruction, they both knew Aramis was seeking reassurance. Porthos wasn't the only one who needed grounding.

Aramis pressed his nose into the rings of hair and breathed deeply for a moment. This possessive attitude wasn't the same as hers. It wasn't the same. She did it with a callous disregard for him whereas Aramis did it to Porthos with affection, devotion and more love than she had felt in her entire life.

'Not the same' he chanted silently in his head a few more times. He felt Porthos' head move under his nose as he continued to nuzzle back. Warmth rushed over him and he exhaled slowly.

Ducking his head slightly, Aramis pressed a kiss to the back of Porthos' neck and moved his fingers up to the laces on Porthos' braies. There was a slight tremor in his hand as he undid them but the slight groan that sounded from Porthos' chest settled his nerves. It was a noise he'd come to love over the years. It was the hopeful yet despairing noise that meant he craved Aramis' touch yet feared prolonged teasing.

“Part your knees a little more,” Aramis said softly, the hypnotic lilt returning to his voice now the difficult moment had passed.

Porthos complied instantly and his hands gave another involuntary flex. The laces came apart easily under Aramis' fingers and Porthos' breathing stopped entirely when the same fingers gently grasped his member and drew it out of his braies.

“Still,” reminded Aramis but this time there was more of a teasing note and he chuckled softly when a soft groan of dread sounded from the man in his arms.

He gently held Porthos' length in his hand, rock hard with barely a touch, and gently began to stroke him. Keeping his movements long and slow, Aramis let his confidence grow. His own cock was painfully hard but he wasn't ready to go there just yet.

After a couple of minutes of this, Aramis realised Porthos was moving gently with the rhythm and, without thinking, clenched the hand pressed against his stomach, digging his nails in slightly.

There was a slight hiss of pain and time seemed to stop. Neither of them breathed, waiting for the other to react first. Aramis could feel Porthos beginning to tremble in his arms and knew he was slightly too far gone to be the first to respond. Taking a deep breath, Aramis relaxed his hand for a moment before digging his nails back in.

Porthos groaned deeply and they both seemed to let out a held breath at the same moment.

“Still,” chided Aramis, his voice still shaking but with a lower, more threatening note.

Porthos breathed deeply before nodding and then groaning when Aramis' hand began to move up and down again. The skin on his stomach was still tingling slightly and since Aramis seemed OK, his own mind added it to the list of bondage and it, too, built his arousal.

He sank comfortably into the rhythm and relaxed, enjoying the slow build. The quiet, peaceful atmosphere Aramis had created was washing over him and keeping him drowsy. For long, quiet minutes they remained that way. The only sound in the room was their slightly ragged breathing as Porthos felt himself growing closer to the edge.

Though his wrist was beginning to ache keeping this calm rhythm, Aramis was watching Porthos closely. Though his lover hadn't anticipated his reasons, Aramis still had confidence in himself and continued his movements, never changing, never wavering, never slowing, never quickening.

It was only another five minutes or so before he was rewarded with a frustrated yet resigned groan when Porthos realised he wasn't going to reach release like this. He chuckled in Porthos' ear and heard him groan again.

“Should I stop?” asked Aramis, stilling his hand but not letting him go.

Porthos gritted his teeth but didn't answer. Heat was coiled in his belly but he just couldn't quite get there.

“I'll continue then,” Aramis murmured, resuming his motions.

Porthos groaned again but managed to keep his body still. His member was so sensitive but Aramis was determinedly not touching the engorged head and wasn't quick enough for Porthos to reach release. He could feel his climax just out of reach and his hands again fluttered uselessly behind his back.

“You can spend if you wish, mi vida,” Aramis said, silkily.

Porthos whimpered softly, knowing there was no way he could do so like this and also knowing Aramis would be well aware of this fact. He screwed his eyes up beneath the tight blindfold and tried to will himself closer.

“Oh, mi vida,” Aramis murmured, mock disappointment etched into his words. “If you don't wish to spend, you don't have to. Let's continue for a count of twenty and if you don't spend by then, I won't continue to torment you.”

Porthos groaned deeply in frustration and thrust his hips impatiently into Aramis' hand. He hissed in pain again when Aramis nails dug into the soft skin of his stomach once more. A second, louder hiss of pain sounded as Aramis' fist clenched around his cock.

“Cheater,” Aramis said quietly, the smile in his voice audible. “Just for that, you're down to a count of fifteen.”

Porthos groaned again and he felt the familiar rise of equal parts desire and frustration. He felt a swirl of panic as Aramis' nails dug in slightly to the soft dip of his stomach and his voice drop to a husky whisper.

“Fifteen... fourteen... thirteen,” Aramis began.

Porthos bit his bottom lip and concentrated hard on the sensations Aramis was creating and willed his body to get there.

“Twelve... eleven... ten... Good boy. Holding so still,” Aramis whispered, pride filling his voice.

Porthos groaned deeply and felt his body tightening but the panicking feeling was increasing and making it harder to concentrate.

“Nine... Eight,” Aramis continued, nuzzling Porthos' ear with his nose.

“Sire,” groaned Porthos desperately

The nails on his stomach dug in suddenly and Porthos gasped in pain.

“You lose five for speaking out of turn,” Aramis hissed. “Three...”

Porthos whined in desperation. The sudden flare of pain had brought him right to the very edge but as he heard Aramis' low voice whisper “Two” he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

“One... Time's up, boy,” Aramis murmured, immediately removing his hand.

Porthos sagged forwards, groaning desperately.

“Woah, woah, come back. Shh, shh,” Aramis murmured.

He quickly raised his arm and the hand he'd removed from Porthos' length he pressed against Porthos' chest, drawing his body back between his legs. Flattening the hand on his lover's stomach, Aramis made small stroking motions with his thumb and kissed gently against Porthos' ear.

“Good boy. Mi vida, mi amor. Estoy tan orgulloso de ti, querido,” Aramis murmured softly, feeling the body between his legs tremble slightly. "Te quiero tanto."

Porthos felt tears gathering behind his blindfold as the Spanish endearments washed over him. He was breathing hard through his nose and was somewhere between being desperate to find the orgasm still bubbling under the surface, the tightness in his abdomen almost painful, and simply floating helplessly in Aramis' control.

“That's it, my love,” Aramis soothed, the hand on Porthos' chest beginning to stroke gently as the man's breathing started to slow. “My beautiful boy. Can you turn around?”

Porthos nodded and carefully turned himself around on his considerably wobbly knees, his hands still bound behind him, to face Aramis. He was gently pulled to one side and realised Aramis was helping him lean against the uninjured thigh. The arms previously wrapped around his front settled on his bare back and stroked slowly up and down the expanse of skin.

For long minutes the two of them sat, leaning into each other, in silence. Aramis had leaned forwards, bowing over Porthos' kneeling form. Porthos smiled beneath his blindfold when Aramis began to nuzzle absent mindedly into Porthos' hair. It wasn't until Porthos gave a small shift in his lower body that Aramis sat back up.

“Can you stand, mi vida?” he asked quietly.

“Yes Master,” replied Porthos, slightly drowsily.

Aramis leaned over Porthos again and quickly undid the cloth binding his wrists.

“Back slightly,” Aramis said, softly.

Porthos obediently moved back, using his hands for balance, to give Aramis some room. He started forwards nervously when he realised Aramis was pulling himself to his feet without assistance.

“Sire?” he asked tentatively.

“I'm fine,” Aramis replied. His voice was still very soft but perfectly steady. “Help me to the bedroom?”

Porthos stood and paused for a moment to shake his legs out after kneeling for so long, the rest of his clothes falling from his body as he did so. After a few seconds he held his arms out and Aramis hobbled close enough for Porthos to wrap an arm around his waist.

With Porthos bearing some of Aramis' weight and Aramis seeing the way for them both, Porthos' eyes still being covered by the tight cloth, they made their way slowly to their bedroom.

As Aramis pulled away slightly, Porthos made to kneel in his spot by the bed but Aramis just said quietly, “Straight to bed please, mi vida.”

Porthos' heart gave a pang when he heard the nerves in Aramis' voice and he quickly slid into bed, back against the wall. He listened hard as he heard Aramis shedding his clothes and as the slender body settled carefully beside him, realised he'd removed his underwear as well.

Aramis settled onto his back in bed and licked his lips nervously. This was the first time he'd been nude in bed with Porthos since before he was captured. He was grateful it was his right thigh as it was the one furthest from where Porthos lay but it did mean it was the side he usually chose to lay on.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

Porthos quickly moved against Aramis' side, feeling his way by Aramis' outstretched arm. He pillowed his head on Aramis' chest but whined slightly when his still sensitive member made contact with Aramis' leg. While it was no longer hard as iron, it was still sensitive to the touch. Aramis chuckled softly and Porthos grinned against his lover's skin.

“Close your eyes,” Aramis murmured as his fingers found the knot on the blindfold.

Porthos felt him unwind the cloth and he couldn't help himself blinking a few times. Once he'd cleared the spots, however, he closed them and rested his head back on Aramis' chest.

“Thank you, mi vida,” Aramis murmured, grateful Porthos wouldn't see the marks still left on his body. While he knew Porthos would see them in the morning, he hadn't had to undress in front of him and see the heartbreak in his eyes.

“Of course, Sire. You know I... I would... I wouldn't think...”

“I know, Porthos. I know,” Aramis murmured quietly. His hand was stroking Porthos' back. “I'm working on it, mi vida.”

Porthos nodded against Aramis' chest and shifted closer. He whined again when Aramis rubbed his leg against his still tingling cock.

“Mine,” murmured Aramis in the dark and the pair of them chuckled quietly together.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relaxed morning takes an unexpected turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make little to no apology for the amount of pillow talk I write between these two. It makes my world go round.

It took Porthos long minutes to work out what had awoken him. Finally, blinking and wrinkling his nose, he realised it was Aramis' hair filling his nostrils. As he tilted his head, he smiled to himself, seeing how in their sleep they'd shifted positions. While he had fallen asleep with his head on Aramis, he'd woken up on his back with Aramis curled tightly in his arms, his head tucked under Porthos' chin.

He tried to stifle a yawn but wasn't able to stop the movement of his chest disturbing Aramis who shifted slightly.

“Porthos?” he whispered.

“I'm 'ere Sire,” murmured Porthos, dipping his head to press a kiss into the unruly black waves.

Aramis made a small pleased noise and nestled closer into Porthos' body.

“How are you, mi vida? After... Yesterday?”

“I'm great, Sire. Last night was... Thank you. The... your voice...” Porthos gave an exaggerated shudder and Aramis chuckled.

“I enjoyed it immensely. I'm pleased you had fun as well,” Aramis murmured, sleep still heavy in his voice.

“I did,” Porthos said, relaxing back against the pillows.

The two lay quietly, limbs still entangled, for long minutes, enjoying the warmth of each other's bodies. Aramis was simply luxuriating in the feeling of being back in bed with Porthos. All those simple, perfect feelings he had clung to in that cell were here, in this moment.

“Sun's up already, love,” Porthos said, dipping his head to the messy black head again.

“Ah. That awful mistress, reality. Why must you invite her into our bed?” Aramis sighed, refusing to open his eyes.

“I serve you, Sire, you know that. She, however, rules over us both,” Porthos murmured into the hair his nose was still pressed in.

“We should rebel against her,” insisted Aramis, arching his back slightly to press closer to Porthos.

“Really, Sire? You want to encourage me to be rebellious?” Porthos teased.

“What would you do if you could rebel against her?”

“Run away and travel the world with you,” Porthos answered. “Of course if I successfully rebelled against her, I might get the idea that I could rebel against you.”

“Oh, really?” Aramis asked, finally tilting his head up to look at Porthos.

“Think of all the things I could do,” Porthos murmured.

Aramis' hand snaked between their bodies and took a gentle hold of Porthos' cock, not surprised to find it already beginning to harden.

“You know it wouldn't be as good without me,” Aramis said quietly.

“It wouldn't have to be without you,” countered Porthos, his eyes closing at the feel of those talented fingers beginning to massage him.

“You mean we would make love but you would think of your own pleasure first?”

“Maybe not first but I could certainly spend whenever I wanted,” Porthos said, a grin spreading across his face. “I could use the pot whenever I wished... I could eat what I want... Sit where I please... I could even walk on the rug in my boo- ah.. ah!”

“What's wrong, Porthos?”

Porthos laughed breathlessly as Aramis' hand had begun to squeeze painfully around his length.

“What was that you said?” Aramis teased, keeping up the threatening pressure.

“Sit where I like?”

“Not that one,” Aramis said, increasing the pressure slightly.

“Eat what I want? Use the pot?” Porthos said, laughing. His voice was growing in pitch as the pain in his cock increased.

“Keep trying,” Aramis teased.

“Oh... The spending whenever I-” Porthos continued, breaking off into a loud groan as Aramis gave a particularly painful clench.

“Try again,” Aramis said cheerfully.

“The boots?” suggested Porthos, beginning to fidget as the pain started to become unbearable.

“That's the one,” Aramis confirmed, still not relaxing his hand.

“I am, ah... Very very sorry, Sire, for making such a suggestion,” Porthos said, his voice whining slightly at the pain. “I would never ever do such a thing and... ah, ah... promise to never even pretend I would harm your glorious rug ever again.”

“Good boy,” Aramis said, laughing and instantly removing his hand. He withdrew his arm to drape it over Porthos' waist.

Porthos laughed as well, though still breathless, and leaned down to kiss Aramis. He stopped, however, when Aramis froze, his eyes widened in panic. Mentally kicking himself, he backed off and lay perfectly still.

“Aramis?” he asked quietly.

Aramis felt like someone had poured icy cold water over his entire body. He could feel goosebumps rising on his skin and his chest was tight. This was Porthos. It was Porthos. But... His mouth... Her... Instead of the nausea he'd felt at the time, his stomach just felt like ice. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move... He wasn't sure he could even blink.

“Aramis?” Porthos asked again, more urgently.

He could feel Aramis' body, the way it had tensed. Every inch of him was utterly still, unnaturally so. He wasn't sure Aramis was even breathing and again, he mentally swore at himself. It was just so... Kissing Aramis was second nature but he'd told him. _Told him_ what that woman had done to him... How powerless she'd made him feel. He should have known, not been so careless.

“Sire?”

Aramis simply stared at him, body rigid and a wild panicked look in the black eyes despite even them being frighteningly still.

“I'm sorry,” Porthos whispered.

There was a deafening silence in their bedroom while Aramis gradually regained control of his body and Porthos was too frightened to move.

Finally Aramis managed to lick his lips and swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.

“I... I apologise, Porthos,” he said thickly. “I wasn't... I...” he trailed off, uncomfortable.

“You weren't ready, love. I know. I'm sorry,” Porthos answered quickly, still whispering.

Aramis' mind was whirling. The reason he'd chosen to spend the night nude with Porthos after having him blindfolded was to remove the tension about him seeing Aramis' body in bed but it now landed heavily on him.

He suddenly felt more naked than ever and tears sprang to his eyes as the feelings of shame and of being dirty crashed over him again. Reflexively, he clutched, searching for the sheet to pull close but Porthos, misinterpreting the feeling of his fist closing against his back, pulled Aramis close.

“No. No,” Aramis said, hurriedly, pushing at his lover's body.

Porthos sprang back as if slapped. He fought hard to keep the hurt from his face but could tell the way Aramis' face fell that he'd seen it.

“It's OK,” Porthos murmured. He drew his arms away lifted them clear of Aramis' body.

“Porthos,” Aramis whispered. “I'm so confused.”

“Please, Sire. Let me try holding you,” Porthos whispered. “No sex. Just comfort.”

“I can't,” Aramis whispered back, his voice cracking.

“Why?” Porthos asked desperately, heat prickling behind his eyes.

Aramis stared at the big beautiful brown eyes watching him. How was it possible he could stare so intensely and yet Aramis felt no pressure behind it at all?

“My body... I...” Aramis tried to speak.

“You feel ashamed of the marks?” Porthos guessed, suddenly understanding.

“Yes,” Aramis whispered, staring fixedly at Porthos' throat to avoid his eyes.

“May I touch you?”

Aramis' mouth went instantly dry and he nodded but when Porthos reached out a tentative hand, he held out his own to stop him.

“Only when and how I say,” Aramis said, nerves making his voice shake.

Porthos nodded, propping himself up on one elbow. Aramis licked his lips again and shifted onto his back, stretching out.

“Touch my hair,” Aramis whispered.

Porthos obeyed instantly and brushed the hair back from Aramis' face, trying to smooth down the dark waves. He made an attempt at running his fingers through it but it was a hopeless endeavour first thing in the morning. They shared a small smile when his fingers snagged.

“May I sit up, Sire?” Porthos asked softly.

Aramis considered him before answering.

“Why?”

“So my arm won't go to sleep,” Porthos replied honestly. “You will also have two hands at your disposal,” he added with a nervous smile.

“You may,” Aramis answered. “One hand only, though, unless I say.”

Porthos nodded and shifted to sit up, cross-legged, beside Aramis. The movement made the sheet fall off Porthos' body and pulled it down Aramis' slightly so one side of his torso was now visible.

“Give me your hand,” Aramis said quietly.

Porthos complied and when Aramis took it in both of his own, he smiled as Aramis pressed it against his heart. It didn't remain there long as Aramis moved Porthos' hand up to the curve of his shoulder and drew it across his body in one long line to the opposite shoulder before releasing it.

Aramis watched Porthos' face carefully and couldn't help exhaling the breath he was holding as he obediently stayed along the line Aramis had drawn. He could feel the calluses on Porthos' skin as he drew his hand across Aramis' collarbones.

For long minutes Porthos simply roamed across Aramis' skin, stroking the rounds of his shoulders, tracing his clavicles, dipping his thumb into the hollow of the throat. Aramis tilted his chin up, exposing the column of his throat invitingly but Porthos stuck to the pattern Aramis had dictated.

“Good boy,” Aramis murmured, his voice equal parts praise and relief.

“You were testing me?” Porthos asked.

“Yes,” Aramis replied sheepishly.

“I understand Sire,” Porthos replied, smiling softly down at him.

“I just... She made me so... I need...” Aramis fell silent searching for the right words.

Porthos had proved for years that he never wavered in his obedience. Aramis was trying to find a way to explain that he wasn't trying to make Porthos slip up but words were failing him.

“I understand,” repeated Porthos. “I'm here. I'm... touchable proof?”

“Tangible,” corrected Aramis.

“Tangible. I'm tangible proof that you aren't powerless like she made you feel. You can rely on me and I will always, always be there for you. If you order, I will obey. Always,” Porthos said fervently.

Aramis felt tears welling up in his eyes again and grimaced as they spilled over.

“May I?” asked Porthos, raising his other hand.

Aramis nodded mutely and stiffened slightly as Porthos raised a hand to his face, wiping the escaped tears away with the rough pad of his thumb. He exhaled slowly as Porthos returned his hand to his lap, the other stilling on the space between his collarbones.

“You... Nothing sexual... but... you can touch me,” he said, his voice small.

“Are you sure?” Porthos asked, studying Aramis' face.

“Yes,” Aramis answered, his voice a little stronger. “But one hand, slowly and I repeat, nothing sexual.”

“Yes Sire,” Porthos replied, smiling as the authority seeped back into Aramis' voice.

He rested his hand firmly on Aramis' chest, directly above his heart for several seconds before sliding down and cross slight, fanning out across his ribs. Aramis tensed when Porthos' fingers ran over the same welt he'd found previously that wrapped around from his back.

Rather than backing off, however, Porthos pressed his fingers against it again, tracing it more firmly.

“Porthos,” Aramis said.

“Sire?”

“I... You don't have to touch them,” Aramis murmured. That awful sensation of something clawing at his chest from the inside was back.

Porthos frowned at him for a moment before moving to his stomach and slowly, deliberately, tracing the line of a particularly long whip mark that ran across the soft skin of Aramis' belly.

The slighter man sucked in an audible breath and stared at Porthos' face. He felt the dry, warm fingers stroke across the marks left by the whip and once again, his eyes filled with tears. This time he didn't make any attempt to hold them back, he just watched his lover.

Porthos saw Aramis' eyes brimming with tears and, as much as it pained him to do it, turned his gaze away to look down at the body laying beside him, the sheet dislodged by his hand, leaving Aramis' torso entirely uncovered. He stroked across another mark and felt Aramis' body shiver. Flicking his eyes up to Aramis' face he saw the man's eyes had closed but were steadily leaking silent tears.

For a long, long time they remained there in silence, Porthos' hand tracing and caressing all the marks left on Aramis' skin. It traced across every welt visible while Aramis continued to cry silently. His body shook now and then as he cried but Porthos made no move to soothe him other than continuing his slow, methodical pattern.

As he silently wept, Aramis felt like the heat of Porthos' hand was drawing poison from each and every welt, opening them and resealing them with love, erasing the hatred and cruelty that placed them. He began to fidget, trying to get Porthos' attention.

“Sire?” Porthos asked, removing his hand.

“Help me turn,” Aramis said, his voice hoarse. “Need you... Do my back.”

Porthos obligingly assisted Aramis to turn over, trying hard not to jostle his leg. He didn't ask what was going on in Aramis' head, nor did he make any effort to stop the tears. As soon as he was on his stomach, Aramis' back arched and Porthos obediently began to trace the marks on his back as well.

The state of his back was much worse than his stomach and Aramis shifted restlessly as Porthos began to cover his back, seeming to erase the shame from him with every touch. He was crying openly, now, his whole body shaking with quiet sobs. Still, Porthos did not waver from his task. His heart ached, however, seeing Aramis come apart like this. While he wasn't surprised, understanding full well that this type of catharsis was good for Aramis, it still made his own eyes prickle uncomfortably watching his owner weeping into their pillows.

It took much much longer for Aramis to calm down this time than it had taken for him to relax after the almost kiss. Porthos' arm was aching from its constant movement by the time Aramis seemed to have cried himself out. He shifted his motions from focusing solely on the marks to simply stroking large, wide paths across his entire back. Finally, Aramis lifted his head enough to see Porthos.

“Oh Porthos,” he whispered, his voice ragged.

“Master,” Porthos said, gently, smiling softly.

Aramis drew another shaky breath and struggled onto his side.

“Hold me,” Aramis whispered.

Porthos instantly twisted to lay down on his side and opened his arms to draw Aramis gently into them. His face was wet where it pressed against Porthos' chest and he could feel the mucus dripping from Aramis' nose. Even his forehead was damp from sweat where it was pressed firmly against Porthos' throat.

Porthos allowed them half an hour, no longer, before he reluctantly nuzzled into Aramis' hair.

“Mistress calls us, Sire,” he said quietly.

Aramis gave a shaky laugh.

“Tell her to come back later,” he mumbled.

Porthos chuckled warmly, the sound vibrating through Aramis, where his face was still pressed against the man's chest. Reluctantly, he pulled away and smiled up at Porthos.

“OK, mi vida. Up we get.”

It turned out Porthos had timed his rousing of Aramis quite well. They were dressed and Porthos was doing a sweep of their living room for stray clothing when footsteps were heard on the stairs.

Aramis was settled in his armchair but clutched at Porthos' hand as he headed to put the clothes out of sight from visitors before closing their bedroom door.

“Do that, answer the door, then stay close,” he said in a low urgent tone.

Porthos studied Aramis' face for a few seconds before nodding.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Porthos have breakfast with some visitors.

Aramis was silently grateful that Serge, Athos and d'Artagnan had all turned up at once. It meant the fact Porthos sat at Aramis' feet went without a remark. While his friends would understand, Serge would have questioned it if not for the three visitors taking up all the remaining seats. What he was most grateful for, however, was the polite way nobody had commented on how awful he must look. He'd caught Athos' searching look and knew his eyes must still be bloodshot from all the tears but nobody commented.

The hot breakfast Serge had brought was a thing of beauty. He'd presented a small jar of honey and added a small amount to only Aramis' bowl of porridge. It was glorious. D'Artagnan pouted and moaned to Serge about not being offered any and the playful bickering it allowed him a small moment to touch Porthos' hair. He was still shaken by his breakdown this morning and felt he'd been pulled uncomfortably fast from the safety Porthos provided.

“Right... I gotta go, boys. Where's me other dish?” Serge said, slapping his hands on his thighs in preparation to stand.

“Other dish?” Aramis asked.

“Yer. When I brought you stew a coupla days ago,” Serge said, scowling. “You better have not lost it.”

“It's in the kitchen,” Porthos said.

He turned his face up to Aramis who gave him a small nod.

While Porthos made his way to the small kitchen, followed closely by Serge's shuffling footsteps, Athos watched his friend in the armchair closely. It seemed d'Artagnan was also watching Aramis as he broke the silence.

“You alright?” d'Artagnan asked from his place on the sofa beside Athos.

“Yes, my friend. As well as can be,” Aramis replied, not turning to look at them. His eyes were still fixed on Porthos, just visible in the kitchen arguing about whether or not the pot had been cleaned well enough.

“You don't seem alright,” d'Artagnan said, frowning.

“Leave it,” Athos said, quietly.

D'Artagnan flicked his gaze rapidly between Athos, who was watching Aramis, and Aramis, who was watching Porthos. It was Athos, and only Athos, who met his gaze. His moustache twitched in a slight, almost imperceptible way, that d'Artagnan recognised as his way of telling them he had everything under control.

“Ow!”

There was a _thwack_ and Porthos' voice sounded from the kitchen. It wasn't uncommon for Serge to scold and tease the Musketeers, especially Porthos, but it was uncommon for Aramis to react to it with more than a smirk. He was already struggling to his feet and waved d'Artagnan away when he made to assist him.

“This one is yours,” Serge was saying as Aramis hobbled towards the small kitchen. “ **This** one is mine!”

Aramis made it to the archway of their small kitchen area to find Porthos trying to pull a wooden spoon out of Serge's left hand while the one in his right was clearly not being fought over.

“They're both ours,” protested Porthos. “You didn't leave one. I can tell because these are both kinda clean. Ow!”

Another _thwack_ sounded as Serge used the uncontested spoon to hit Porthos on the back.

“Children,” Aramis said, amused.

“Tell... him... to let go... of my bloody spoon!” Serge grunted, hitting Porthos each time he paused.

“It's our bloody spoon,” Porthos protested, trying to dodge the blows while clearly unwilling to relinquish his grasp on the controversial utensil.

It was evident to everyone, including Serge, that Porthos was clearly struggling for the fun of it. Old and injured as he was, Serge was no match for him.

“Are you sure it's yours?” Aramis asked, his beard twitching as it hid his widening smile.

“Don't make me hit you as well, injured or not!” threatened Serge, pointing the weaponised spoon at Aramis.

“You'd hurt an injured man?” Aramis asked, shocked. “What's more is you'd deprive a hero like Porthos his favourite spoon?”

“It's my bloody spoon!”

“Porthos,” Aramis said, simply.

Immediately the bigger man let go entirely and stepped back, grinning broadly.

“Right then,” Serge said, ruffled. He gave Porthos another swat, this time using the spoon he had won, and scooped up his pot, dropping the utensil in the top.

“There. See, Porthos? See how happy it's made him to give him a new spoon to replace the ones he clearly keeps losing,” Aramis said, smirking.

Serge was placing the pot on the ground in order to find his boots.

“You two aren't too old to put over my knee, y'know. I'll show you what that bloody spoon can do in the right hand,” he warned.

Aramis and Porthos shared a heated look when Serge bent to do his boots up. At a gentle nod from Aramis, Porthos knelt to help him. Serge glared at him but Porthos was one of the few people in the regiment he'd accept help from. If Tréville had been Porthos' surrogate father, Serge had been his Uncle who fed him and consoled him when he'd been given a dressing down.

After a quick exchange of goodbyes, Porthos was helping Serge shuffle down the stairs while Aramis reseated himself in his armchair.

“You're so much better!” d'Artagnan exclaimed as Aramis took his seat again.

“Some,” Aramis said, smiling. “Not entirely,” he added, massaging his leg.

Porthos re-entered the room, closing the door behind him. He stepped over to the rug and began to gather up their bowls but as he leaned down to pick his own up off the floor, Aramis touched his wrist.

“No,” he whispered.

Porthos knew it was an order but he made it sound like a plea. He slipped to the floor immediately and crossed his legs under him, shuffling close so that Aramis could lay his hand in the curls.

“Everything OK?” Athos asked, watching the movement.

“Rough morning,” Porthos said.

Athos narrowed his eyes slightly but no further explanation was coming so he let it pass.

“We have an update. We found the man from the Court. While he refuses to give his name, he shared enough details that we feel comfortable it's the man you described,” Athos said, wasting no time.

“Details?” asked Aramis, paling slightly. His hand clenched in Porthos' hair.

“Some. Just enough to correspond with your memories so that we could verify his identity,” Athos said, softly. “But certainly not all he knew.”

“What we heard was enough,” d'Artagnan growled.

Porthos winced as the hand in his hair gripped so hard pain prickled across his scalp.

“D'Artagnan,” murmured Athos in warning.

There was an awfully tense moment where Porthos dared not move but wanted to slap d'Artagnan. He knew the Gascon hadn't meant anything by it but his “rough morning” should have been enough to know Aramis was still fragile.

“Sorry,” muttered d'Artagnan, looking at his lap. “I just... I've heard about that kind of thing, obviously, but without justice and to someone I care about...” he trailed off.

A flicker of movement in between Athos and d'Artagnan caught Porthos' eyes but he didn't have spare concentration to see what it was. The painfully gripping hand in his hair tilted his head back and he looked up at Aramis who was scowling, slightly.

“Sire?” he whispered.

The hand relaxed enough for the pain to stop but the grip remained present. Aramis' mouth silently formed the word 'sorry' before gently guiding Porthos' head around to face Athos again.

“Continue,” Aramis said, his voice shaking slightly.

“He has agreed to be our liaison and is surprisingly willing to help. Tréville has a suspicion about the man having an ambition to join the military so that is likely making him be co-operative and kept him...” Athos trailed off, looking for the right word.

“More controlled with me?” Aramis suggested.

Athos said nothing and simply inclined his head in agreement, ignoring the snorts of protest from d'Artagnan and Porthos.

Aramis did not, however, ignore Porthos' snort, the hand growing suddenly tight again, a gentle shake warning him not to disagree again. Porthos sat up a little, straighter, suddenly realising it wasn't just his proximity Aramis was using for comfort and reassurance... He was using his control and holding Porthos on a very tight leash. A theory about why he was increasingly controlling began to form in his mind but he quickly batted it away so he could focus on Aramis.

“You raised concerns about it being something of a vacation for her, Porthos?” Athos asked.

Instead of answering, however, Porthos flicked his eyes up to Aramis before back to Athos. There was a slight disapproval in the quirk of Athos' mouth but instead he switched his attention to Aramis.

“The man agrees with Porthos' objections,” Athos said, bluntly.

“And you?” Aramis prompted.

“I don't see any other option,” Athos admitted.

“Well I'd say if she was in the lower class area of the Chatelet it wouldn't be,” d'Artagnan said, frowning.

“Porthos,” Aramis said, curtly.

“Food,” Porthos answered, keeping his answer short in response to Aramis' tone. He was surprised to feel how thick his tongue felt in his mouth. A tug on his hair felt like approval and he had to blink a few times to recognise confusion on d'Artagnan's face.

“The food there is awful,” d'Artagnan protested. “It's just rats and grains and flavourless vegetables.”

Porthos flicked his eyes up to Aramis but his lover wasn't looking back so, without the permission, he didn't respond.

“It'll be guaranteed food, though,” Athos said.

“Oh c'mon,” protested d'Artagnan, chuckling slightly. “It's not exactly a step up.”

This time, when the hand in his hair gripped painfully tight, he welcomed it. The unspoken command to remain silent protected him and while the normal shame and defensive aggression built in his chest, it had nowhere to go, contained by Aramis' control.

“What do you think the people in the Court eat?” Athos asked, barely above a whisper.

Porthos could feel d'Artagnan's eyes on him but he stared resolutely at a spot ahead of him, somewhere around Athos' knees on the sofa. The grip in his hair was now so tight he couldn't move his head without increasing the pain so he remained entirely still, letting Aramis hold him, letting Aramis prevent the painful memories and self hatred trying to rise in his chest.

“But-” d'Artagnan began but the sound was cut off almost instantly.

Aramis nodded gratefully at Athos, who had just squeezed d'Artagnan's wrist to get his attention. He watched as Athos gave a meaningful flick of the eyes to Porthos' immobile form and d'Artagnan followed. Aramis knew without looking that Porthos' face would have closed down, his jaw clenched.

“OK,” d'Artagnan said, swallowing hard. “So it would not necessarily be an unusual hardship for her in regards to food but the accommodation must be a step down? While it might provide her shelter it would not be as comfortable as Porthos led us to believe her current lodgings are.”

Aramis could feel Porthos' body shudder beneath his hand and knew he was remembering being in that bed with her.

“I agree,” Aramis said quietly. “I wish for Porthos and I to be a part of the discussions in the future. No more conversations with Tréville without us.”

Athos blinked a few times before answering, the only display of surprise he gave before replying.

“We're meeting with Tréville **and** the Cardinal at midday,” Athos said. “We're hoping to capitalise on his affection for us with regards to our co-operation with Marie de Médicis and Agnes' child.”

“You call that co-operation?” d'Artagnan asked, grinning.

“From his point of view, yes,” Athos said, the ghost of a smile crossing his face.

“I cannot make it that far,” Aramis mused. He peered over Athos' shoulder at the clock he and Porthos had purchased. It was only just past eight. “Would you kindly arrange a carriage to pick us up at eleven?”

Athos blinked again but then, casting his eye over Porthos and recalling the red rims around Aramis' eyes when they'd arrived, he suddenly realised his friends were not as OK as they'd attempted to appear.

“Of course,” Athos answered, rising to his feet smoothly. He tugged d'Artagnan to his feet as well.

Nobody spoke as d'Artagnan and Athos put their boots on but Aramis did raise a hand in farewell. It was only a few seconds more before Athos was propelling d'Artagnan out the door by the arm.

As the door closed, Aramis finally released his grip on Porthos' hair, flexing his fingers, painful after holding so tightly for so long. At the movement, though, Porthos let out a very uncharacteristic whimper.

“Shh, mi vida. Shh. They're gone. It's just me,” Aramis said quietly, stroking the hair a few times before settling on the back of Porthos' neck, gripping firmly but not tightly.

“Master,” Porthos murmured.

He turned his head experimentally and found Aramis was willing to let him move. He buried his face against Aramis' thigh and exhaled heavily, his body shaking slightly.

“I hate... Now he'll... I-”

“Shh, shh, my boy. Shh,” Aramis soothed. He used his other hand to run his fingers through Porthos' hair, just petting gently. “He won't think any less of you. He... understands you have worked up from poverty but he's still a sheltered young man who doesn't understand what poverty actually means. Your experiences will help him learn.”

Porthos nodded against Aramis' thigh, feeling the grip on his neck lessen as he calmed down. It still always made him angry and defensive but this time... Aramis had stopped it going anywhere.

“You're amazing,” Porthos mumbled.

“Why thank you, mi vida,” Aramis said, slightly startled. “What makes you say that?”

“You stopped... You owned my reaction,” Porthos said, sitting up slightly and looking up at Aramis.

“I own all of you,” Aramis said hesitantly, his hands falling away from Porthos.

“I know, Sire. I'm just always taken aback when you show it in ways I don't expect,” Porthos said, smiling up at him. “Want to lay down for a bit?”

“I do,” Aramis admitted. The shakiness he'd had to swallow this morning after his weeping was coming back and he was grateful for Porthos' suggestion.

It only took a few minutes of careful arranging before Porthos was on his back on the recently vacated sofa, almost laying down but with his shoulder and head propped up by the wing. Aramis was between his legs, back to Porthos' chest.

“Thank you my love,” Aramis sighed, his fingers lacing with Porthos' and resting on his stomach.

“Always,” Porthos replied, his eyes closed.

“I meant for... For last night... And this morning... For touching me like that... For letting me cry... For letting me hold you so tightly,” Aramis listed.

“I... You don't have to thank me for any of it, Sire. I feel privileged that you trust me enough to do any of it,” Porthos answered.

“Even forcing you so deep like that?” Aramis asked, sheepishly.

“Well you didn't really, not today. I didn't get foggy like I do normally. It was... different somehow,” Porthos said, thoughtfully.

“Oh?”

“Yeah... I was still fully aware of what was going on but I was sort of... extra aware of you and it felt... like...”

Aramis stroked his thumb back and forth over Porthos' hand as he listened to him finding the right words. He'd expected it to make Porthos drowsy and unfocused like it did normally but he was content to let Porthos find his own way of describing what actually went on.

“Oh. OK. I have it,” Porthos announced several minutes of silence later. “I felt like I was on a very very short, tight rein but on other occasions it feels like I'm wrapped in a thick, heavy blanket.”

“Leashed as opposed to swaddled,” Aramis mused.

“Yeah,” Porthos said. “I think it was the pain. I guess it's the difference between when you let me get all... floaty when you hurt me compared to when you make me stay focused.”

“Mhmm. I'm intrigued by the idea, though. I like the idea of having you silent and immobile while still... entirely mindful,” Aramis said, still thoughtful.

“You don't like it when I get drowsy?” Porthos asked, concerned.

“Oh I do. I do, mi vida,” Aramis said earnestly. “It's more often than not my goal. I use it to great effect, if I say so myself.”

Porthos didn't reply but did make an approving murmur, squeezing Aramis' hands.

“I just like the idea that I can control you, hold you tightly, render you speechless and immobile and yet still know that it's a conscious decision keeping you in place... No matter what I did to you it would be stubbornness and an active wish to obey keeping you in place as opposed to instinct,” Aramis said thoughtfully.

Despite his intention to simply hold Aramis while he dealt with this morning, Porthos felt himself stirring at the familiar note in Aramis' voice. The man in his arms had one of the most beautiful, lyrical voices Porthos had ever heard, like silk, and yet in these moments there was a chilling, frightening note in his tone. A note that always made Porthos' hair stand on end and, unerringly, predictably and embarrassingly made his cock twitch. It was like a razor blade hidden in those folds of silk. It could mean anything or nothing and it frightened him in the best, most beautiful way.

“Well I'm still glad you let me do it,” Aramis said, stroking his thumb over Porthos' hands again.

“Always,” Porthos murmured. He suddenly remembered he'd had a theory.

“Porthos?” Aramis asked. He'd felt Porthos' body jerk slightly.

“I... I have a theory about why you're being so controlling,” Porthos said tentatively.

“You comfort me,” Aramis said, simply.

“Yes... but the better you get physically the more... The more you have to confront what else happened,” Porthos said quietly. “The need to reassert who you are, to remember who we are. To prove it's still here, it's real. No matter what else happens, that part of our lives is untouched.”

Aramis lay in silence for a long time, the constantly moving thumbs being the only way Porthos knew he was awake.

“I also hate that decisions are being made about and for me without my say so. As you say I was physically hurt but my mind wasn't. Now it seems we're getting to the meat of the decision making but my mind is... I'm scared now,” Aramis admitted but his voice was more thoughtful than anything else.

“I think... Sire... Since I picked you up, you've been sheltered and protected, mostly by me,” Porthos said. “As you get better, we're closer to you being part of the real world, as it were.”

“Out there be dragons?” Aramis asked.

“Something like that,” Porthos chuckled. “I'll be at your feet all the time when we're here, both literally and metaphor.”

“Metaphorically,” Aramis corrected, his lips twitching as Porthos experimented with the new word.

“Really? Bloody hell,” grunted Porthos. “So I'll be at your feet all the time when we're alone, in all ways.”

“Cheat,” Aramis pointed out, laughing. Porthos squeezed his hands playfully.

“But when we're outside in the real world, you have to spend time on your own again, without your guard dog,” Porthos said, his voice teasing gently.

“So I am being extra bossy at home because I'm frightened of our new mistress?” Aramis asked.

“Something like that. So does that make her my supreme ruler? Do I bow to her or to you?”

“Well don't worry, mi vida. She and I have an understanding that I will make sure my instructions fit in with hers,” Aramis answered, lightly. “You just obey **your** owner and we'll be good.”

“Unfortunately my mind is still full of rebellious ideas,” Porthos hummed into Aramis' ear.

“Did your rebellious ideas end well earlier?” Aramis asked, smirking.

“Perhaps not but let's just say that my owner doesn't have access to the... shall we say... pressure point, he used earlier,” Porthos replied, grinning broadly.

“Surely if he's your owner, he would simply have to click his fingers to get access?” Aramis asked.

“Well sure but I would have to dislodge him and I think he's pretty comfortable now,” Porthos answered.

“What a shame,” mused Aramis. “Of course if he's your owner he wouldn't have to ask at all, right? Access is his by right? Well... no... not even access... Your pressure points are his.”

“Hmm?”

“Well let's drop the cryptic... If you're saying that your rebellion can't be quashed because I'm currently too comfortable to move in order to obtain access to your cock,” Aramis said, matter of fact. “I hasten to point out it's not actually yours.”

Porthos sucked in a breath but didn't reply.

“As you, Porthos, are mine... Every part of you is mine, which means that your cock is mine. I can be as nice or as horrible to it as I like. It's mine to stroke, to suck, to ride.... to squeeze, to hurt,” Aramis continued, his voice dropping to almost a purr.

Porthos buried his face in Aramis' hair and groaned deeply. He shifted restlessly as his breeches began to be uncomfortable.

“My Porthos, my boy, my **property** ,” Aramis said, his voice dropping to that purr again on the last word. “Would never rebel. He isn't **allowed** to. He's on my leash, in my control, belongs to me. Isn't that right?”

“Yes Master,” moaned Porthos.

Aramis shook one of his hands free and, through his breeches, found the outline of the leather strap Porthos wore around his knee. He squeezed meaningfully.

“So yes... I'm intrigued by having you held strictly in position at my word alone by your own will,” Aramis said, immediately returning to a business like tone. “Conscious, alert, fully aware and yet still remaining exactly where and how I have told you to be. Even if you're uncomfortable, in pain, frustrated, horny, begging for it...”

“Master,” Porthos groaned again and shifted his hips restlessly.

“Maybe you're right,” sighed Aramis. “Since I am too comfortable, I can't move and I can't access your pressure points so I can't possibly manage you.”

“I take it back, Sire,” Porthos growled in his ear.

Aramis reached up behind him and very gently patted Porthos' cheek.

“Good boy.”

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers meet with the Cardinal

By the time Porthos was helping Aramis tug his long boots up, it felt as if something heavy had been lifted from both of them. Despite the still tingling arousal, Porthos had relaxed enough that all his resentment around his background had faded and he was simply focusing himself on Aramis' well being.

As it was, the marksman was steeling himself for the upcoming meeting. Not only did he hate meeting with Cardinal Richelieu at the best of times, he didn't particularly like the idea of doing so while still injured and weak. His main job, however, was to keep Porthos calm. The last thing they needed was Porthos' temper getting the better of him and either making the Cardinal stop helping or pushing anyone into treating Flea too harshly.

When he said as much to Porthos, the larger man opened his mouth before closing it. A few seconds passed as they stared at each other before Porthos simply nodded.

“Good boy,” Aramis murmured. He stroked Porthos' cheek for a moment before boots on the stairs interrupted their quiet moment. “It's open,” Aramis called, recognising the footsteps.

Athos stepped through the door, ornate walking cane in hand, and held it out to Aramis.

“Thank you,” he said, earnestly. While he was still injured, at least leaning on a cane he would be able to stand without aid and maybe even walk far enough to appear well.

Athos nodded and the three of them made their way out to the waiting carriage.

  
  


  
  


  
  


The carriage took them to Cardinal's wing of the Louvre and Aramis grimaced. He knew from experience that it was a long way from here to his office. As he carefully stepped down, he tested the cane and was surprised how steady he felt. His eyes landed on the long corridor, however, and he gritted his teeth.

Only a few steps into the door, however, ignoring the leers of the Red Guards who were clearly amused to see Aramis limping, Captain Tréville came out of a door to their left.

“Aramis,” he said, a rare and genuine smile gracing his lined face.

“Captain,” Aramis said, answering the smile.

Tréville lifted a hand and gently squeezed Aramis' bicep.

“Good to see you,” he said quietly.

“You too,” Aramis said, dipping his head. “Thank you for allowing Porthos and I to be part of this.”

“You will both,” Tréville said, looking between them, "keep a civil tongue in your head and remember we are Musketeers. We will all conduct ourselves as such.”

“Yes Captain,” Porthos and Aramis answered in unison.

“In here,” Tréville said, turning back through the door, his three Musketeers following.

He led them into a dining room, ornately furnished in dark colours with thick heavy curtains covering the tall windows. The darkened room was dominated by a long dining table with six chairs either side and one at each end. The only light came from the candles on the table.

Mignard, one of Richelieu's most loyal Guards was stood beside the door and couldn't resist smirking at them as they entered.

Armand-Jean du Plessis Cardinal de Richelieu was at the very end of the table, bent over a long scroll of parchment. In addition to the two large candelabras on the table, there were another two single stem candles above the Cardinal's work. They cast flickering shadows over the grey of his hair as he didn't even bother to look up. He just flicked an imperious hand at the table, indicating they should sit.

A flicker of annoyance passed over Tréville's face and his back stiffened. He exchanged a glance with Athos who shrugged slightly before walking around the table to take a seat about halfway down. Tréville followed and sat beside him while Porthos and Aramis took seats opposite them.

Long minutes passed in the silence while Richelieu continued to read the document he was working on. Finally he signed the bottom of it with a flourish but still didn't look up at the Musketeers until he'd sealed it with his wax stamp. When he finally did look up, he managed to avoid looking at any of the four and simply managed to locate Mignard, who strode over quickly.

“Make sure this gets to the Duke of Montmorency by tomorrow night,” Richelieu said, handing the scroll over. Mignard nodded and made to leave. “Feel free to tell Henri that this is a kindness and should he decline my generous offer he will discover my reputation for effectiveness is not without reason.”

Mignard nodded again and reached the door.

“Please make it known I am not to be disturbed for the remainder of the afternoon. A meal at sunset is the next interruption I wish,” he added. Mignard nodded once more in reply and closed the door behind him.

Finally, after what must be about ten minutes of their being there, Cardinal Richelieu finally turned his attention to the four men surrounding him.

“Where is your irritating little Gascon?” he asked, leaning back in his chair to survey them.

“D'Artagnan has duties elsewhere,” Tréville said, gruffly.

“What duties might these be? I was under the impression he had become one the so called Inseperables,” he said, watching Athos and Tréville carefully.

“Since he is attached to the Musketeers, it is my business where he is, not yours,” snapped Tréville.

“Yet not officially under your command,” mused Richelieu. “Still no commission.”

“We aren't here to talk about d'Artagnan,” Tréville said, irritably, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on the table.

“True,” Richelieu murmured. “We're here to discuss what to do with a Mademoiselle Charlotte Ravel.” he said, switching his gaze to Porthos, looking at their side of the table for the first time. “Or as I believe you know her... Flea,” he finished, his lip curling in amusement.

Porthos didn't reply but he couldn't stop his body jerking a tiny bit in surprise. He'd never known her real name in all the years they'd lived together. Richelieu's eyes flashed in amusement before turning back to Tréville and Athos.

“So I believe we left it at discussing imprisonment as a sentence?” he asked.

“We did,” Athos stated. “We have concerns that the security of the Chatelet will not actually be a hardship compared to poverty in which she currently resides.”

Richelieu appeared to want to deny this but he couldn't find an objection. He licked his lips thoughtfully and turned his sharp blue eyes on Aramis.

“You wish for me to make her time in prison more difficult? Won't that make her... vengeful?” he asked. “While I am extraordinarily creative, your Captain led me to believe you were trying to guarantee her discretion.” Here the Cardinal flicked his eyes to Tréville who was scowling before back to Aramis. “Although he has not explained why.”

“He won't,” snapped Tréville.

“Your Eminence,” Aramis murmured as Richelieu's bright blue eyes looked over at Tréville before turning back to Aramis. “What are you looking to gain out of this?”

“Ah yes. Your Monsieur Aramis has cut to the heart of the matter. While I am always _so_ eager to do the troublesome Musketeers a service, I do have to benefit in some way as well if I am going orchestrate a punishment outside the system of justice,” Richelieu said, his speech quickening and becoming more clipped. “Never mind all the trouble you have caused me professionally _and_ personally, you do, however, expect me to invest my time and effort into protecting secrets that you do see fit to reveal to me?”

“If our refusal to give you yet more ammunition to destroy my Musketeers offends your delicate feelings, **Cardinal** , we will simply let this woman get away with kidnap, torture and attempted murder of the King's own soldiers and see whether that keeps the people living in the Court in their place,” Tréville argued, his own voice growing rougher.

Richelieu's tongue flicked out over his thin lips again as his eyes seemed to bore into Tréville's who stared right back.

“Very well,” he said, briskly. “I want the vermin in the Court to realise they cannot do as they wish. I want them to learn that the better class of people living in this city are not for them to upset and I want them not to be emboldened by the idiocy and carelessness that allowed for either of you to be captured in the first place.”

Aramis felt Porthos' body go rigid but he didn't react.

“It is our opinion, your Eminence, that after the disruption earlier this year, the people have rallied around this woman,” he said calmly.

“You think her temporary removal will destabilise them?” Richelieu asked scornfully. “It seems to me she is more likely to be welcomed back as something of a hero as she will have escaped sentencing.”

“An overly harsh punishment will lead her to make attempts to destabilise the military and, whatever you may think of the Musketeer's, we are the King's own regiment,” Aramis answered.

“I can only guess at what... indiscretions you have committed this time to upset her to this extent,” Richelieu said. His eyes raked dangerously over Porthos before flicking back to Aramis. “Or what crimes of your own you have committed and are attempting to conceal.”

Time seemed to stop in the room and all five men sat in silence. Richelieu's eyes were flicking with great interest between them all and while none of them visibly reacted, he seemed to be reading more in their lack of reactions than Tréville was entirely comfortable with.

“On the other hand, your Eminence,” Athos said, smoothly. “If we were to permanently remove her the people would find a new leader and orient around them. In the intervening time we might find they're plunged into chaos and become even more volatile.”

“Monsieur du Vallon?” the Cardinal asked, the sneer in his voice implied rather than overt.

“It's... The Court is a town within a city. It's got its own code of conduct. Take the leader away and the... agreements that are in place will fall away,” Porthos grunted.

Richelieu continued to peer at Porthos for several seconds until Athos spoke.

“The uncertainty of having her absent but potentially returning we believe will keep the Court functioning but weakened. We believe a somewhat uncomfortable residence in the Chatelet will humble her as well,” Athos said quietly.

“Humble her?” asked Richelieu, raising his eyebrows. “You think this is about humbling her? This is about making sure the people of Paris know the nobility and the crown are supreme. This is making sure what the King and his government say is what goes.”

“You will need her to be somewhat humbled for when she returns,” Athos said, tilting his head. “A ruler under your thumb would be preferable to one who is not.”

The Cardinal's sharp eyes narrowed slightly but Athos stared calmly back without moving a muscle.

“Indeed,” Richelieu murmured. He rose from his chair wish a swish of robes and began pacing back and forth across the wide room.

Porthos frowned across the table at Athos and Tréville, the latter of which just shook his head slightly.

“Not one word of this leaves this room,” Richelieu said, turning to face them again. He leaned over so his hands pressed on the polished wood. “I will not have it said that the influence I work so hard to maintain can be used to clear up the messes that mere soldiers create for themselves.”

Tréville snorted angrily but didn't speak.

“I will keep her incarcerated for an undetermined period of time. I will guarantee her safety while she is imprisoned but deny her comfort. I will also not reveal in which establishment of correction I am keeping her. I, and I alone, will be the only one who decides if or when she is released. If her people should become unruly and cause an inordinate amount of trouble in her absence, it will be on your heads,” Richelieu said, staring around at them all in turn, lingering on Porthos.

“I want to know where she is as well,” Tréville argued, standing.

“Why?” the Cardinal asked.

“I want to make sure you aren't using your access to her to try and worm out the information we are keeping from you,” he answered, leaning his own fists on the table.

“While you might have the luxury of operating in blissful ignorance, I do not,” the Cardinal snapped, straightening.

“I'm well aware you think that everything in everyone's lives is your business but it's not. We asked for your assistance and you have granted it because it furthers one of your many schemes,” Tréville growled. “We did not do it to lend you more weapons.”

The Cardinal stroked his beard, his eyes fixed on the glowering Tréville.

“Very well. I will keep my questions pertinent to matters of the Court's operation and not press for information about these two.. friends,” he said, gesturing towards Aramis and Porthos without looking at them.

“I will be allowed access to her as well to check her well-being,” Tréville pressed.

“That hardly seems necessary.”

“I will be allowed access,” Tréville repeated.

Another tense few seconds passed as the two pairs of blue eyes stared at each other.

“Very well,” the Cardinal agreed.

Captain Tréville took his seat again while the Cardinal shuffled some of the papers he had been working on around until he found a fresh piece of parchment.

“Talk me through how you expect to get Mademoiselle Ravel to agree,” he said as his quill began to scratch against the paper.

“We have identified a man that is in the woman's inner circle and yet disagrees with her actions in this matter. We believe we have enough to offer him that he cannot get elsewhere to ensure his discretion and co-operation,” Athos said. “We anticipate her agreeing to a meeting between ourselves and d'Artagnan with just him for company. We believe her arrogance is sufficient that she thinks the threat of sharing our information will prevent us taking her.”

“Will it?” Richelieu asked without looking up.

“Yes,” Athos answered.

“How do you propose getting her into custody, then? One assumes you will not be breaking into that cesspool to arrest her publicly.”

“Staging an arrest in the market on a day she only has this man,” Tréville answered.

“We will stage a fight with this same man, arrest them both and he will be released the same day,” Athos elaborated.

Richelieu gave no answer, which the men recognised as his being unable to find flaw in the plan. The scratching of his quill continued for another few minutes until he frowned down at it.

“Do you have a timescale for this little intrigue?” he asked, quill poised over the parchment.

“Should be very soon. We have reached out to our contact overnight and expect an answer back from the woman this evening,” Athos answered.

“Within the week?” Richelieu asked.

“I expect so,” Athos said, nodding.

Richelieu also nodded and bent his head back to the parchment. It was only a few moments more before he was rolling it up and sealing it. He drew a small symbol on the outside of the parchment before rolling it towards Tréville who snatched it up irritably.

“Hand this to one of my messengers at the stables,” he said, dismissively.

The four men stood but the Cardinal did not. He had already turned to another unopened scroll and pulled a ledger towards him at the same time.

“Your Eminence,” Athos said, bowing slightly.

Porthos also bowed, as did Aramis but at Aramis' slight murmur of pain, the Cardinal looked him over.

“We thank you, Cardinal,” Aramis said, repeating the motion without showing pain this time.

“Yes. I'm sure your gratitude knows no bounds,” Richelieu said scathingly.

Tréville handed the scroll to Athos before retaking his seat. Athos raised an eyebrow down at him but a small shake of the Captain's head was enough for them to all depart, leaving Tréville and Richelieu staring each other down again.

The three Musketeers made their way outside to find the carriage had, unsurprisingly been moved. A servant offered to have it brought around but Aramis declined, choosing instead to walk to the stables with Athos.

“Do you trust him?” Porthos asked, quietly.

“As a rule, no. With this? Maybe,” Athos replied. “I think Tréville will look out for us.”

“He knew,” Aramis murmured.

“I think he suspects yes,” Athos agreed.

There was an uncomfortable silence as they made their way slowly to the stables. After about five minutes, Aramis was regretting his decision as his leg was beginning to throb quiet badly.

“Only a little further,” Porthos murmured.

Aramis glanced up and the stables were just coming into view so he gritted his teeth and continued. By the time they reached the stables, his injured leg was trembling violently and the cane Athos had provided was all that was holding him upright.

Porthos found him a small stool to sit on while Athos made arrangements for the carriage to be prepared. When he returned he was no longer carrying the parchment, clearly having found the right person to give it to.

“They've asked for a few minutes to locate a driver,” Athos reported.

Aramis nodded and, handing the cane to Porthos, gripped his thigh tightly.

“Too much, too soon?” asked Porthos.

“Yes.”

“I need to get back to the garrison,” Athos said, frowning. “A patrol should be returning soon and I need to hear what they found.”

“You go, Athos. We're just heading home. I need some rest,” Aramis said, frowning as he rubbed the muscle just below the wound.

“Ah. I forgot,” Athos said, suddenly. He strode away to his horse and returned with the mount in tow. For a moment he dug around in the rolled up blanket for a moment and held out an object to them that made them both laugh loudly.

“Our spoon!” Porthos said, laughter booming out around the stables.

“Indeed,” Athos said, smirking. “I expect retribution if Serge ever discovers it was me that spirited it away from his kitchen.”

“Well he can't blame us,” Aramis said, chuckling slightly.

“I intend for him to notice it's missing when I get back so you can claim innocence. Especially if d'Artagnan is still out on patrol and I can feign ignorance as I was here,” Athos said, his eyes crinkling under the brim of his hat.

“Why, Athos,” said Aramis, feigning shock. “Such behaviour! From an officer, no less!”

“I am merely making sure things get back to the right person,” Athos said, smoothly.

He turned and mounted his horse and with a tip of his hat, was trotting out of the palace grounds.

“Bad?” Porthos asked, watching Aramis grimace as he continued rubbing around his thigh.

“Mhmm,” Aramis said, his teeth clenched.

“Getting worse?”

“Not since I sat down,” Aramis admitted.

“Good,” Porthos said.

They spent the next few minutes in silence as they waited for the carriage to be prepared. It was with a grimace that Aramis managed to hobble up the step and he all but collapsed against Porthos' side for the ride back.

When they finally reached their home, Porthos closed the door from the street behind them to find Aramis staring up the stairs in dismay.

“Want a lift?” asked Porthos, grinning.

“Please,” Aramis said, gratefully, leaning against the wall.

Instead of picking him up in his arms, however, Porthos lifted Aramis none too gracefully up and over his shoulder.

“Porthos!” protested Aramis, kicking feebly.

“I gotcha,” Porthos replied, laughing.

Despite the indignity of the position, Aramis recognised that he'd carefully positioned the arm gripping him away from the wound in his thigh.

“Porthos,” he cried again. “Put me down!”

“Shh,” I need to concentrate on the stairs,” Porthos argued.

“Put me down!” shouted Aramis again, still laughing.

“Stop wriggling,” Porthos admonished, slapping Aramis playfully on his upturned backside.

Aramis gave a surprised yelp.

“Oh you're so going to regret that,” he warned.

“Promises, promises,” said Porthos cheerfully, starting his way up the stairs.

Aramis was still fidgeting on his shoulder but not trying to get away. He seemed to have resigned himself to being carried and Porthos grinned the entire way up.

His glee was short-lived, however, when, seconds after he'd unlocked their door at the top of the stairs, there was a loud _thwack_ and a stinging pain in his backside as Aramis had clearly located the spoon.

“Hey!” he protested.

“Put. Me. Down!” Aramis demanded, swatting Porthos increasingly hard to punctuate each word.

“Alright, alright!” Porthos said, laughing. “Lemme take you to bed.”

“No. Sofa,” Aramis answered, still using the spoon on each word.

“Yes Sire,” Porthos groaned. “Just gotta put you down to take my boots off.”

“No,” Aramis said, grinning against Porthos' back. He smacked Porthos again, harder this time.

“But Sire,” Porthos protested. He was stood slightly uncertainly. He was torn between trying to kick his boots off with Aramis still over his shoulder, depositing Aramis on the table or bed in order to do so or possibly putting Aramis on the sofa without removing his boots at all.

“Figure,” _thwack_ “It” _thwack_ “Out.”

Porthos groaned deeply. Even through the leather of his breeches his bottom was starting to feel warm and he couldn't help it causing a stirring in the front as well.

“Will you... stay really still, Sire?” Porthos asked, tentatively.

“Yes,” Aramis replied, smacking him again.

“Are you going to hit me for every word?” Porthos asked, chuckling.

“I. Am.”

“Yes would have been enough,” Porthos complained.

“I. Know. I. Thought. You. Would. Appreciate. A. More. Complete. Response,” Aramis said, continuing to strike Porthos but also laughing.

“Thank you, Sire,” Porthos groaned, shifting restlessly.

“For. The. Answer. Or. The. Blows?”

“Both, Sire. Definitely both,” Porthos growled, shifting as he began to lose concentration. Aramis was starting to feel heavier so Porthos was running out of time.

He moved carefully to the edge of the rug and leaned with his free hand on the back of his armchair. The same chair they normally used to put their boots on. He was grateful to feel Aramis carefully holding himself very still while he slowly toed off his boots. It took him a longer time to get his second boot off and he was beginning to tremble again.

“Take,” Aramis whispered, simply patting Porthos' bottom gently this time. “Your. Time.”

Porthos nodded and took a breath. He gently shifted Aramis more securely and resumed trying to toe his second boot off. It was only a few moments before he successfully managed it and crossed the rug to lay Aramis gently on the sofa.

“Thank you, mi vida,” Aramis said, brightly.

“You're welcome,” Porthos replied.

“Help me off with my coat,” Aramis said.

Porthos complied and helped Aramis remove his belts, coat and boots.

“Put them away, and your own, and come back please,” Aramis said, the light of mischief in his eyes.

Porthos felt himself twitch, his arousal still bubbling below the surface, the warmth on his bottom not helping. He obeyed, hanging up his thick doublet beside Aramis' long coat and sash before hooking both their belts and their guns on the wall by the door. Coming back to Aramis' side he hovered uncertainly, slightly unsure where to sit.

Aramis watched him for a few moments, finding the way Porthos nervously bit his lip positively adorable. He then pulled himself to sit almost entirely upright.

“Fetch me two pillows, please,” he said.

Porthos quickly retrieved the pillow but paused when he got back. Aramis was still holding the wooden spoon in his hand and seemed to be stroking it thoughtfully.

“Sire?” he asked, hoarsely.

“One under my thighs, please,” Aramis said and with Porthos' assistance, situated the pillow under his thighs, cushioning his sore leg. The second he tucked behind his back, forcing him to lean forwards slightly.

“On your knees on the sofa,” Aramis said, pointing to the clear space beyond his feet.

Porthos blinked a few times in surprise before complying. He closed his eyes as arousal flooded his system when he felt Aramis testing the reach of the spoon and had confirmation of the man's intentions.

“This way. Keep going. Stop,” Aramis said quietly. “Hands on the back of sofa. Straight arms. Back straight, mi vida.”

Porthos shuffled sideways, moving up Aramis' legs slightly until he was told to stop. Following Aramis' directions, he settled into a not uncomfortable position, knelt across Aramis' legs, halfway up on his knees. He knew it was because Aramis now had full and comfortable reach across his backside.

“Perfect. Bare yourself to me,” Aramis said softly.

Porthos found his hands were shaking when they undid the laces on both his breeches and braies and pushed them down over his hips. He groaned when the cool spoon smoothed over the skin on his bottom, surprised how warm the skin felt already.

“How many words do you think I've spoken since you put me down?” Aramis asked, rubbing small circles on the flesh.

Porthos froze and turned his head to look at Aramis in horror.

“I... I don't know, Sire,” he answered honestly.

“Twenty? Thirty? More?” Aramis asked.

“Thirty?” Porthos suggested, weakly.

“I lost count at thirty and that was before I had your beautiful cheeks on display,” Aramis said, shaking his head.

“Fifty?” Porthos suggested.

“That still sounds conservative, mi vida. For instance I am still speaking and yet no more strikes are coming,” Aramis said.

“I don't know, Sire,” Porthos said, softly. “I... I am sure you will give me as many as you think it should be.”

“If I wish to over-estimate?” Aramis asked. “Would you mind that?”

“No Sire,” groaned Porthos.

“Would you like that, in fact?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Would you like me to hurt you, Porthos?”

“Yes Sire,” Porthos said, his voice coming out little more than a hiss as his fists clenched on the back of the sofa where he was holding himself up.

“Good,” Aramis purred.

Porthos groaned loudly when Aramis first began to strike him. He didn't start out gently, correctly guessing the blows through his breeches were enough to warm Porthos' skin up. Heat was blossoming under his skin as Aramis spread the strikes around. They weren't fast but they were wonderfully hard and Porthos closed his eyes, moaning softly.

His eyes flew open again as two short, hard smacks to the crease between buttock and thigh landed on each leg.

“We're going to test that quiet and immobile thing,” Aramis said. “Do you understand? You may answer.”

“How quiet, Master?” Porthos asked, after a pause.

“Absolutely no words at all unless I ask you a direct question. **I** **nvoluntary** noises will be acceptable. If I think you're making noise on purpose, I will not be pleased. Is that clearer?”

“Yes Master,” Porthos answered.

“You may open and close your eyes and mouth at will but other than that, I want you to remain as still as possible. If you feel the need to change position it is the only time I will accept speech and a simple request will be enough.”

Porthos shivered and felt his cock throb with anticipation. While he was the gentlest, most romantic, affectionate, loving person Porthos had ever known, Aramis' sadistic streak was something to behold. Porthos knew there was a similar craving for pain in him and he shuddered again.

“That's enough,” Aramis said, sharply. He smiled to himself when Porthos shifted slightly and became still. “Do you have any further questions before I impose silence?”

“No, Master,” whispered Porthos, his voice thick.

“Hush then,” Aramis murmured.

This time when the blows began to land, Porthos realised Aramis meant business. He was remarkably fast paced and not remotely gentle.

He was startled to find how much more it hurt when he wasn't allowed to sink into it. Normally he found somewhere soothing inside him and it muted the pain. It still hurt but in a welcome, warming way. These strikes were sharp, hard, burning and inescapable.

There was a sudden pause in the blows and he had to screw his eyes up to stop himself groaning in relief. The spoon moving over his skin was no longer soothing. Either the skin was too sore or the spoon had been warmed up too much. Instead it felt like sandpaper and Porthos wanted to flinch away from it but knew he couldn't.

“Good boy,” murmured Aramis, watching the internal struggle.

He knew that breathing was something Porthos couldn't control so he paused just long enough to make sure they weren't erratic, heaving breaths before beginning again.

The strikes were slower this time as Aramis focused on any patch of skin that wasn't yet red. He covered every inch of Porthos' buttocks until the skin from hip to hip, waist to thigh, was a bright, glowing red. Still, Porthos was holding perfectly still and hadn't uttered a sound.

For the first time since he was taken, Aramis could feel himself starting to grow hard. He'd had a few tingles but nothing yet so definitive. A quick glance saw Porthos in a similar state. Without a single touch to his member, he was fully hard and already beginning to leak slightly.

Aramis licked his lips and stopped again to check for any skin he'd missed. As he paused he heard Porthos whimper softly and then clamp his lips together tightly. Knowing it wasn't a noise he ever made by choice, Aramis let it go.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked, stroking the wooden surface up and down Porthos' as yet untouched thighs.

“I... Master...” Porthos tried but trailed off.

Aramis smiled to himself, learning more from Porthos' inability to answer than he would have from any generic reply. The man's eyes hadn't opened yet.

“How is the position?” he asked.

“Elbows aching. Rest OK,” Porthos answered, clinging to the direct question.

“The pain?”

“Worse somehow,” Porthos answered, frowning.

“Unbearable?”

“Oh **God** no, Master,” Porthos said quickly, shuddering slightly.

Aramis chuckled softly and gave a warning tap between Porthos' legs.

“Still,” he reminded Porthos.

“Yes Master.”

Aramis struck swiftly but only just hard enough to make Porthos' eyes fly open in surprise as pain shot through his testicles.

“Not a direct question,” Aramis pointed out. “Good boy,” he purred when Porthos made neither movement nor reply.

He narrowed his eyes, focussing on Porthos' rounded behind and took aim again. This time he did away with the fast pace, choosing to make his strikes harder instead. Each strike rocked Porthos' body forwards an inch or two but every time he pushed himself back into position. Each strike sounded like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room. This continued for quite a while until the skin was turning purple rather than red and Porthos' jaw was clenched.

“How are your legs?” Aramis asked.

“They... aching,” Porthos admitted.

“Lean forwards against the back,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos raised himself up on his knees and shifted forwards so his body rested against the sofa. He hadn't realised how much pressure was on his elbows and thighs until he had the support of the furniture beneath him.

“You can drape your arms over the back if it's more comfortable,” Aramis said quietly.

Porthos experimented but found they were more comfortable simply spread beside him, resting on the high sofa back.

“How's the pain?”

“High, Master,” Porthos said through gritted teeth.

“Would you like the silence lifted?”

Porthos opened his mouth to reply but closed it again, frowning.

“Why not?” Aramis asked, tilting his head. He'd assumed as they got the business end of the beating he'd need to express himself, at least a little.

“I... Hurts more,” admitted Porthos.

“It's more intense pain? You're enjoying that?”

“I... Want to see...” Porthos grimaced.

“You want to see if you can take as much as I want you to without your normal fog?”

“Yes Master,” Porthos replied, grimacing.

“OK then,” Aramis said, smirking a little.

He began to land a fast flurry of blows up and down Porthos' newly exposed and cold thighs. He could feel his hunger rising in his throat as, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Porthos' jaw clench again.

Only when Porthos' strained breathing began to be audible over the constant slapping noise did Aramis begin to slow down. While he was still operating under the no voluntary noise rule, it was clear that having his weight more supported was definitely helping Porthos feel things more.

He let the strikes increase in strength as they slowed, once again covering any skin not showing any signs of redness. He was now glowing red from the waist to the knees. Aramis smirked to himself and lay three sharp slaps to the crease between buttock and thigh on each side, a location he liked to call Porthos' sweet spot.

A loud, ominous growl echoed around the room for a second before it was suddenly cut off.

Aramis ceased his movements and stared avidly at Porthos' face. His eyes were still tightly closed, his jaw clenched, lips tightly pressed together. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and as Aramis' eyes trailed over his back, he could see a thin film of moisture along Porthos' spine as well.

“Well now, Porthos,” Aramis said, silkily. “It seems to me that we're just about there. At what point does my desire for your pain overtake your capacity to obey?”

Porthos grimaced but made no other sign he'd heard. He correctly interpreted it as a rhetorical question. In the past Aramis had never tested Porthos' obedience like this. He'd always chosen to use bondage if things were going to ratchet up like this. Given the purple patches already blooming on the reddened skin of Porthos' buttocks, they were already way past the point Aramis would normally stop when Porthos wasn't bound.

“Genuinely asking, mi vida... Can you continue for one more round?”

“I... I think... Yes Master,” Porthos said.

Underneath the quaver in his voice, Aramis could hear it. There it was. Pain was something Porthos enjoyed. It was often either sexually arousing or something he enjoyed for Aramis or sometimes the sensation itself was simply pleasing. Other times, though. Other times... Aramis licked his lips.

Other times they reached a point where something primal in Porthos craved it. Craved to be taken beyond the point of nice, enjoyable pain. Craved the darkness, the suffering. It called to something in Aramis. The answering hunger. The part of Aramis who saw the man he loved above all others grimacing in pain and just wanted to strike him some more.

Aramis took a minute to steady his hand and calm his own breathing before narrowing his eyes again.

He struck. Nowhere near as hard as he could have but with the tissue as abraded and bruised as it was, it caused that deep rumbling growl sound again. There was no way that was a voluntary noise. Aramis smiled darkly and struck again on the other cheek.

He continued for a while, random strikes in random locations across Porthos' buttocks. He made sure they all landed firmly and each and every one drew an animal growl or groan from deep within Porthos' chest. When the growling continued into the silence between strikes, Aramis finally stopped.

Dropping the spoon to the floor Aramis wrapped his hand around Porthos' closest ankle and kept a tight grip on it while Porthos came down. It took long, long minutes for Porthos' body to settle. The growling stopped quickly enough but it was a while before his breathing returned to normal.

Porthos took a deep, shuddering breath and flexed his ankle briefly, grateful for Aramis' hand, tethering him. The pain in his backside was a bone deep throbbing. It was so warm it felt like it must be burning and blistering. The heat continued down the backs of his thighs and as he came back to himself he realised how much his knees were throbbing from the prolonged position.

“Master?” he whispered.

“I'm here,” Aramis murmured, squeezing his ankle slightly.

“I need...” Porthos trailed off, unsure of what it was he needed.

“I need you to carefully, slowly, move to the floor. You're going to curl onto your side for a few minutes until I come for you,” Aramis said quietly.

Porthos hummed his agreement and there's no other word for the way he moved than slithered. His entire body puddled to the floor and he obediently curled up on his side. He was vaguely aware of Aramis standing up and felt a part of him should be following in case his leg was struggling but he felt weighed down, pinned by the instructions. He was entirely unaware of how much time passed between when he curled up obediently and when he woke up, still on the floor some time later.

Aramis was stretched out beside him, sleeping peacefully. Porthos blinked a few times and smiled as he realised Aramis had tucked a pillow under his head. He smiled to himself, shuffled a little closer to nuzzle up against Aramis' side and drifted back to sleep.

It wasn't long after this before they both began to stir. Porthos had turned entirely onto his stomach while Aramis had turned onto his side, his bad leg in the air, and lazily draped an arm across Porthos' back.

“Mmm. Hi Master,” mumbled Porthos, drowsily.

“Hello, mi vida,” Aramis said, smiling.

Aramis propped himself up on his elbow while Porthos simply remained where he was, sprawled happily on his stomach. He arched his back comfortably when Aramis ran his hand across his back. He had no memory of his shirt being removed but was incredibly pleased it had.

“How are you feeling?”

“Got no bones,” Porthos answered.

Aramis chuckled softly and reached down to hover his hand above Porthos' still deeply coloured buttocks. There was still a lot of heat coming off of them and Aramis frowned slightly to see several particular patches turning purple.

“I'm sorry, mi vida. I had no intention of going anywhere near that far,” he said, thoughtfully.

“Master,” Porthos groaned. “You're ruining it.”

Aramis chuckled again.

“I think you're going to bruise, my darling,” he pointed out. “Quite a bit.”

“I might care tomorrow,” Porthos shrugged.

Aramis chuckled and gently placed the palm of his hand on Porthos' buttock. A hiss of pain met the contact, which then turned into a little plaintive moan.

“Precisely,” murmured Aramis, returning his hand to the muscles covering Porthos' broad back.

Porthos shifted on his stomach to move closer to Aramis' body and nuzzled into Aramis' chest.

“I got a coupla days off, Sire. You know I'll heal fine,” he mumbled. “Big areas bloody?”

“Not at all,” Aramis replied, allowing himself a little ripple of pride at the fact.

“Really?” Porthos asked, surprised. It had felt like he was being flayed towards the end. He attempted to twist around to look but a soothing hand between his shoulder blades pressed him back down, making him relax again.

“Really, really. Not a single break of skin,” Aramis said, this time a definite note of smugness in his voice.

For several long minutes, Porthos simply lay there, on the rug, with Aramis' hand stroking gently across his back. He realised he must have drifted off again when he noticed Aramis had dropped the arm he had propped himself up on and was now peering at him sideways.

“Mm. Sorry Master,” Porthos murmured.

“Happy sleeping?” Aramis asked.

“Not sure it's sleep,” Porthos answered, chuckling.

Aramis leaned forwards slightly to press a kiss to Porthos' forehead before rubbing their noses together gently. Porthos laughed softly before stretching.

“Hungry, my darling boy?” Aramis asked quietly.

“Always,” Porthos answered. He shifted to get his arms underneath him but Aramis pressed him back down again.

“You rest. I'll forage,” Aramis said, ruffling Porthos' hair.

While he was feeling incredibly relaxed, Porthos couldn't stop himself going on the alert as Aramis struggled carefully to his feet, using the armchair behind him to push himself up. He smiled when he saw Aramis pick up the cane he'd used earlier that day and closed his eyes, content to simply track Aramis' movement by sound.

Aramis eventually returned carrying a very full plate of food and Porthos carefully moved up onto his knees to take it from him. Some careful manoeuvring later and Aramis had carefully lowered himself back to the floor and Porthos was curled up with his head in Aramis' lap.

“I feel bad for leaving such bruises on you when we have an upcoming meeting,” Aramis mused.

Porthos chewed thoughtfully around the piece of bread Aramis had just fed him.

“I'm actually pleased,” he said eventually.

He raised his hand to take another piece but Aramis gently slapped it away. Porthos smiled up at him and dropped his hand.

“Why?” Aramis asked, taking his own bite.

“If I get too angry or too upset, I'll have the reminder of you there, stopping me. I'll be able to stop myself getting angry and snapping because I'll have a gently throbbing reminder that you're the one making my decisions,” Porthos said, shrugging.

Aramis didn't reply but did smile, simply feeding Porthos another piece of food.

They continued this way in a pleasant silence until the plate was empty. When they were eventually done, Aramis tucked the plate under the edge of the sofa where the spoon lay discarded.

“I'm never going to be able to look at that the same way again,” Porthos said, grinning.

Aramis laughed suddenly and slowly stood, leaning on the cane again. He beckoned to Porthos who hissed in pain as he stood up.

“I'm really fine,” Porthos said, seeing the frown on Aramis' face at the noise.

He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Aramis' waist, nuzzling into the slender neck.

“Love you,” he mumbled.

“I love you too,” Aramis answered, kissing into Porthos' hair. “Bedtime.”

“It's still early,” Porthos protested, nuzzling closer.

“It's not, actually. We've been napping on the rug for a while,” Aramis said gently, stroking the back of Porthos' neck.

“Oh,” he replied, shrugging.

“Are you trying to rub yourself against my leg?” Aramis asked, looking down as Porthos seemed to be trying to get inside Aramis' clothes.

“Wha? No,” Porthos muttered, his hands fisting in the back of Aramis' shirt.

“C'mon. Bedtime my beautiful drowsy idiot,” Aramis laughed.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While waiting to hear back regarding Flea, Porthos and Aramis spend a day at home together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so hard to write and has taken me a while to get right. Sorry for the delay.

“Stop staring at my arse.”

Aramis blinked in surprise and dragged his eyes up to see Porthos grinning at him over his shoulder.

“I wasn't being lecherous,” Aramis said from over his book.

“I know,” Porthos answered, his grin widening mischievously.

“Nor am I going to be,” Aramis added, correctly interpreting the hopeful expression.

“I'm just doing my exercises,” Porthos said innocently, shrugging and turning back round.

Aramis couldn't help but admire the view. He was comfortably stretched out on the sofa reading while Porthos went through their daily pattern of exercises without his shirt on. The muscles rippled across his broad shoulders, the scar on his waist curling at one end when his hips twisted. He licked his lips before tearing his eyes away and back to his book.

He felt eyes on him a few minutes later and looked up again to see Porthos pouting at him

“Yes?” he asked, slowly.

“Nothing,” Porthos replied, still pouting.

Aramis raised his book slightly to hide his own smirk and continued reading. He wasn't surprised when Porthos drew closer a few minutes later and began doing push-ups on the rug beside him. He let this continue until he heard Porthos tut loudly and shift position.

It was beyond his self control to continue ignoring Porthos entirely. He looked around his book out of curiosity to see Porthos on his back doing sit ups but with his legs crossed in the air, pulling the material taut over his buttocks in full view of Aramis. He managed not to react, simply raising an eyebrow at him and shifting his book to block the view again.

Porthos' frustration was growing with every second Aramis resisted. He wasn't entirely sure what he actually wanted but he'd woken this morning still quietly throbbing in pain and since then he'd had a gently thrumming arousal. The sound of pages turning every minute or so made him even more determined. While he was still fairly certain Aramis wasn't ready for sex, Porthos wasn't entirely sure he would want the desire hidden from him. For now, Porthos would simply see who could last longer.

A long, long, time later, Porthos was regretting his plan and the position. Each movement pulled the material across the bruised and sore skin of his bottom and it had already made him hard. He was sweating with exertion from the constant stomach crunches and while this would normally just urge him on, he felt like he was lacking a certain amount of blood flow at the moment. He let his limbs fall to his sides and breathed deeply.

“Giving up so soon?” Aramis asked.

Porthos smirked but didn't lift his head to look at his lover.

“Figured I would, yeah. Why not? Day of rest and all that,” he said, smirking at the ceiling.

“Day of rest?” Aramis echoed, feigning nonchalance. The sound of him turning a page stiffened Porthos' resolve.

“Yeah,” Porthos shrugged. He rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to his feet. If he straightened his legs before pulling his torso upright, accidentally bending over with his bottom sticking out towards Aramis then so be it. These things couldn't be helped.

It must have worked because although Porthos resisted the urge to look round, he felt Aramis' eyes on him the entire time he went to the kitchen and took a long drink of water. He groaned indulgently but when he did finally glance into the living room, Aramis' eyes were back on his book. Porthos allowed himself another little smirk, however, because the intelligent black eyes were perfectly still.

“Outta water,” Porthos announced.

He strode into their bedroom to collect his shirt and had to press the heel of his hand against his arousal for a moment. After his body had begun to calm, he quickly threw his shirt on and returned to the living room.

Aramis waited until Porthos had gotten entirely dressed, his doublet, his belt, his sword belt, his two pistols, his hat and his boots before he spoke.

“No,” he said, casually turning a page in his book.

Porthos stared in shock at Aramis. He had tried incredibly hard to get Aramis' attention while dressing, even getting incredibly close to stepping on the rug with boots, and hadn't gotten even a blink. Now he was responding?

“Huh?”

“You heard me,” Aramis said, still not looking up.

“Then what...” Porthos asked, trailing off.

Aramis let the silence in the room for nearly a full minute before saying anything.

“You may continue exercising if you wish,” he said nonchalantly.

“And if I don't?” Porthos asked, still stunned.

“Then I'm sure you'll find something else to do,” Aramis said, airily.

Porthos swallowed hard, two powerful emotions at war. While he was immensely annoyed at Aramis waiting until he had gotten fully attired before stopping him, there was also something amazingly delicious about this casual display of power. There was not a single part of Aramis that even considered the possibility of Porthos disobeying and Porthos knew it. There was a fleeting thought of actually doing it just to prove Aramis wrong but there was never any chance of it coming to fruition and that knowledge touched something deep inside him. A guttural feeling of ownership that was simultaneously infuriating, soothing and arousing, all at once.

It took several minutes for all of this to filter through Porthos' mind. Several minutes in which he simply stood, still by the door, still staring at Aramis. Several minutes in which Aramis just continued to read, continued not to spare a glance at Porthos. Several minutes, after which Porthos' brain finally found something to say.

“I love you.”

This did make Aramis look up.

“I love you, too.”

They smiled at each other for a few seconds before Aramis turned back to his book and Porthos began removing his belts.

Aramis felt a warmth in his chest as he listened to Porthos undressing back down to just his shirt and breeches. He'd never be able to accurately describe their relationship to someone outside but he didn't care. People like Flea could misunderstand all they liked but this was how they were meant to be. He was unsurprised when Porthos knelt at his side.

“Yes, mi vida?” Aramis asked, placing his book down in his lap.

“I.. I wanted to talk to you about something, Sire,” he said, hesitantly.

Aramis looked at Porthos for a moment before marking his place in his book with the ribbon.

“Is this going to hurt?” he asked, peering at Porthos.

“Uh... I think so,” Porthos admitted.

Aramis used both hands under his bad thigh to lift his legs clear and gestured at the opposite end of the sofa. Porthos obligingly sat down and Aramis stretched his legs back out, feet in Porthos' lap.

“OK then,” Aramis said, warily.

“I... You obviously don't have to answer... I just... I don't know where... If you...” Porthos struggled to find the words he needed.

“Mi vida,” Aramis said, firmly. “Say it.”

Porthos took a deep breath.

“I don't know where you are with sex,” Porthos said, bluntly.

Aramis couldn't stop the tightening in his face but he forced himself to stay calm.

“I'm sorry, Sire... I shouldn't have-”

Aramis' held up hand stopped Porthos mid-sentence.

“I have regained my confidence with _your_ sexuality, mi vida. I have no hesitation in making you aroused, teasing you, keeping you alert,” he said slowly. “My mind is, however, struggling making the leap into direct sexual contact and I admit I still become frightened at the idea of you touching me that way.”

Porthos nodded thoughtfully, his hand stroking idly up and down one of Aramis' shins.

“When you touched me... you hesitated,” Porthos said, slowly.

“When I touched you so possessively I... I struggled not to equate it with how she touched me,” Aramis said, the second half of his sentence coming out in a rush.

Porthos clenched his hand for a moment in the leather of Aramis' trousers before forcing himself to relax.

“You got past it.”

“I did,” Aramis agreed.

“So where does that leave... I... I realised today I was trying to entice you but...” Porthos left his sentence hanging.

“You don't know if I would be upset by it?” Aramis filled in. He smiled at Porthos' guilty smile. “I understand, mi vida. I'm getting there. I've regained my confidence around controlling you and am, as we've discussed, using it as something of a handhold while everything else makes its way through my mind.”

Porthos nodded but didn't say anything.

“I'm perfectly confident around keeping you aroused and was able to sleep skin to skin with you the other night,” Aramis continued. “I do feel desire for you and I take great enjoyment in admiring you. Yesterday with you knelt over me and submitting so beautifully to the pain I even felt my own arousal for the first time. I am not, however, ready to go further.”

Porthos nodded again and swallowed hard.

“Where does that leave me, Sire?” he asked quietly.

“As in... Whether I want you? I do. I really do, my love. I just... It'll take me time to get to the point of being able to make the step from applying myself to you to it becoming a more mutually carnal affair,” Aramis replied.

“Oh... I meant... If I...” Porthos began but again, trailed off.

“Mi vida,” Aramis said, his voice firm again.

Porthos clung to the implied order in his tone and forced himself to carry on.

“What do I do if _**I**_ feel desire?” he said, not looking at Aramis.

“You mean to ask what kinds of advances or requests can you make?”

Porthos exhaled heavily through his nose, a tinge of embarrassment colouring his cheeks.

“I have enjoyed today, mi vida. Is that what you were worried about? Making me feel pressured?” Aramis asked.

Porthos nodded. His eyes had closed.

“Rest assured that my current state of, shall we say, heightened dominance, also means I feel no such pressure. I would ask you keep doing what you're doing at the moment, whether you've been aware of it or not,” Aramis said, tilting his head. When Porthos looked at him, slightly confused, Aramis smiled. “I thought not. You've only been touching me when I can see you coming and there's been nothing sexual in the way you've done so.”

Porthos frowned and thought back. It hadn't been intentional apart from those times Aramis had the metaphorical leash pulled particularly tight although... Hadn't it felt particularly tight since they'd returned home? Wasn't he just responding to Aramis' mood?

“I love you,” Aramis said, quietly, watching this silent discussion inside Porthos' head.

“I love you, Sire,” Porthos replied, a soft smile curling his lips.

“To answer your question, my boy, I didn't feel remotely pressured by your really rather tempting display today. I can't deny I would likely feel less comfortable with a direct request but I am instructing you, Porthos, if you need to make one, do so.”

“Sire... I don't want to make you uncomfortable,” Porthos argued.

“And I don't want you to hide your needs or feelings from me,” Aramis countered. “My firmer hand, as it currently is, is likely to serve as a sufficient reminder that my desires come first. You demonstrated repeatedly, however, you know how to deal with them. You suppressed them perfectly well last night when you lay with me on the rug, hard as you were. You expressed them today with your beautiful body. You aren't stupid, Porthos, and you know me.”

Porthos flashed him a guilty smile, again being reminded of his rather ostentatious exercise session.

“I am human, though,” Aramis continued, his voice very quiet. “I may grow too comfortable with the teasing and forget to work on the rest. If you begin to feel that you're being left behind or grow uncomfortable or even recognise that I'm shying away from things too often, I ask that you tell me. If you wish to phrase it as a request, I would not mind. I am perfectly capable of saying no to you.”

“Are you sure?” Porthos asked.

“I am,” Aramis answered, nodding.

“Then I think there **is** something you're unnecessarily avoiding, love,” Porthos said, frowning.

Aramis raised his eyebrows in question.

“Nudity,” Porthos replied, simply.

He didn't miss the way Aramis' entire body tensed or the way the politely inquisitive look on his face froze in place for several long seconds.

“Porthos,” he whispered.

“I'm sorry, Sire, but it's true. The only two times you've been nude in front of me, I wasn't allowed to see you,” Porthos reminded him gently, speaking of the order to look at the floor and, more recently, the blindfold.

“I had... I had intended for you to see me that morning but I...” Aramis swallowed hard.

“I know, Sire. It was a difficult day,” Porthos said gently. He resumed stroking his hand up and down Aramis' leg.

“Tonight before bed, we'll change the dressing on my leg and sleep as God intended,” Aramis said, firmly.

“I know I brought it up but... Sure?”

“Yes, Porthos. You're right,” he said, nodding vigorously.

They lapsed into silence, Aramis deep in thought about all the things she'd managed to take from him. Striding around the house naked was something he did daily. Even among the Musketeers naked flesh wasn't exactly remarkable. They often swam or bathed together when out on missions. Goodness knows Athos had seen him naked plenty of times. They'd even been talking about d'Artagnan joining their extra curricular activities. If that was ever going to come to fruition, he'd need to become more like himself again.

Porthos, though similarly silent, was not nearly as pensive. He had been trying to think of things to do for the next two days to stop either of them going stir crazy. They were basically waiting for Athos and d'Artagnan to announce a meeting with Flea, if one was going to happen, but sitting around waiting for that would drive them both crazy.

He could take Aramis on short walks but given the five minute walk at the Louvre had nearly made him collapse, they were likely to be pointlessly short. They could get a carriage to the garrison and at least practice shooting from a seated position but getting Aramis to agree to turning up at the yard quite so unable to walk was going to be tricky.

It wasn't until he was halfway through a daydream where he, Athos and d'Artagnan took Aramis by carriage to the clearing in the woods that Aramis spoke, startling him out of his reverie.

“I should start doing some of the exercises.”

“Wha-?” Porthos mumbled.

“That ball took a pretty chunk out of my leg and as it heals, I should get it to heal strong,” Aramis mused.

“Well... OK, Sire... But won't that aggravate it? It's still... Isn't it a bit soon?” Porthos asked, hesitantly.

Aramis tilted his head slightly and frowned at Porthos. He couldn't help his lips twitching into a small smile when his lover bit his bottom lip, clearly uncomfortable at trying to hamper Aramis' wishes.

“Probably,” Aramis finally answered. “I'm getting bored.”

“I was actually thinking about stuff we could do,” Porthos enthused.

“I can't ride. I can't walk. I can't be carried everywhere,” Aramis muttered.

“I thought the four of us could take a small cart to that clearing we always stop at,” Porthos said, hopefully.

“Maybe,” Aramis said, warming to the idea.

Porthos grinned hopefully at him and Aramis met him with a smile.

“Now Porthos,” he said. “I want to thank you for speaking with me about that. I know it wasn't easy for you and I might need your prompting every so often.”

Porthos looked down at his lap where Aramis' legs were and nodded.

“I'm sorry if it hurts you,” he muttered.

“I know. You shouldn't be, though. It's for my own good,” Aramis said. He bent his good leg and patted Porthos' knee with his foot. “In honesty, how are you feeling today?”

“Very sore, Sire. Very sore,” he grinned.

“Besides that,” Aramis replied, chuckling.

Porthos grinned and dropped his head back onto the sofa behind him. His hands began to quietly massage Aramis' calf while he thought.

“Content,” he finally said. “I think I was... I worried that you wouldn't be willing to go there. To be so... Uhm...”

“Cruel?” supplied Aramis. He smiled when Porthos nodded. “I hadn't meant to. I was genuinely just being playful on the stairs but then... It's who we are.”

Porthos grinned again and the two of them sat in a comfortable silence.

“It might be a while before we can go out but there's nothing to stop them coming to us,” Aramis said finally.

“I'll play fetch,” Porthos grinned.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Several hours and a hearty meal of stew and bread later and the four friends were sat around in Porthos and Aramis' living room, laughing about Athos' spoon stealing.

“He's been ranting about that all afternoon,” d'Artagnan laughed. “That new lad he's got working with him is lucky he's got an ear left!”

“You see the trouble you get our young people in?” Aramis teased. He gave the still grinning d'Artagnan a pointed look.

“I haven't gotten d'Artagnan into trouble,” Athos said calmly.

There was a moment of silence before all three of them laughed while Athos simply smiled. D'Artagnan leaned over from his seat beside Athos on the sofa and gave him a quick kiss.

“See,” Porthos said, smugly.

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” d'Artagnan said, leaning forwards. “You two corrupted Athos when he joined the Musketeers, no?”

Athos tilted his head slightly, turning his gaze on Porthos as well.

“I did not!” he protested.

“Ah, mi vida. I think they might have a point. I seem to remember it being your beautiful body and your adorable vulnerability while injured that converted our noble Comte,” Aramis said brightly.

“My, my what?” Porthos said, laughing. The sound rang through the room.

“Well you spent most of that time without a shirt,” Aramis said, shrugging.

“I'm that irresistible?” Porthos grinned.

“You're that irresistible,” Aramis confirmed.

“So are you,” Porthos said, beaming.

Aramis beamed back from his own chair until a small noise from d'Artagnan made them both turn.

“So that narrows it down to one of you two that started all of.... this,” d'Artagnan said, gesturing between them all in a vague depiction of their somewhat unconventional romances.

“Aramis joined the Musketeers first,” Athos remarked.

“And Aramis was perfectly virtuous until Porthos came swaggering through those gates,” the marksman protested.

“Swaggering?” Porthos pouted.

“Swaggering,” Aramis repeated.

“Virtuous?” Athos asked.

“Virtuous!” Aramis repeated, laughing.

“Gates?” d'Artagnan asked.

Three heads turned to look at him.

“You'd taken all the other words,” he shrugged.

Aramis and Porthos both laughed while Athos ghosted his fingers across d'Artagnan's back and smiled.

“Porthos was the first man I ever had feelings for so I was perfectly innocent until he turned up,” Aramis said with dignity.

“Innocent?” Porthos and d'Artagnan chorused.

“You are beasts,” Aramis announced while they both roared with laughter. “Porthos, though, my love. You sit there claiming to have been corrupted by me and yet, I was not the first man you had feelings for, was I?”

Porthos stopped laughing abruptly and stared, open-mouthed at Aramis.

“Ahh... Now the truth comes out,” d'Artagnan said with the air of one enjoying the gossip. He tucked his legs up under him on the sofa and leaned against Athos who obligingly put his arm around him, curling d'Artagnan against his side.

“Porthos,” Athos said, feigning shock. “You, in fact, were the instigator of all our immorality?”

“It was never like that,” Porthos said, uncomfortably. “It was just... comfort was taken where we found it.”

D'Artagnan tensed slightly, fearing he'd stepped on another sore spot but Athos' hand rubbed soothingly up and down his side.

“Was it just comfort?” Athos asked, shrewdly.

“Well... It wasn't love,” Porthos hedged.

“Are you trying to tell us it was just solace, mi vida?” asked Aramis, smirking when Porthos shot him a grin.

“So you definitely dabbled in your pre-Musketeer days?” d'Artagnan asked slyly.

“I'm not the only soldier who has!” Porthos exclaimed, laughing again.

“But of the four of us,” Athos pressed. “You appear to be the instigator.”

“Oh fine, fine. I'm the veteran!” he admitted, raising his hands in surrender.

“Corrupter,” d'Artagnan smirked. “Aramis, you should really do something about him!”

“What do you suggest?” Aramis asked, turning his mischievous black eyes on the Gascon.

“Well... I have to wonder if there's another reason Athos lifted the spoon,” d'Artagnan grinned.

Aramis and Porthos shared a heated glance, which, while d'Artagnan was oblivious, didn't go unnoticed by Athos.

“I think that particular use has already been applied,” he said quietly.

D'Artagnan stared at Aramis for a few seconds before turning to Porthos and peering intently.

“Doesn't look like it,” he said, frowning.

“Porthos is quite adept at hiding the after effects of our Aramis,” Athos murmured.

“You're good at hiding 'em too,” retorted Porthos, his face heating with the three pairs of eyes on him.

“It's not only me who makes an impression on Athos,” reminded Aramis.

“So we know which one of them started the romance but who's the meanest of the two?” d'Artagnan asked, turning to Athos.

“Aramis,” Athos replied instantly. D'Artagnan's gaze switched to Porthos.

“Aramis,” he agreed, nodding.

When d'Artagnan turned to Aramis, the marksman shrugged.

“You aren't arguing that point?” the Gascon laughed.

“Nope,” Aramis said, lightly.

“I always assumed it would be Porthos,” d'Artagnan admitted, feeling a subtle shift in the air. He'd felt it before. There was something in the way Aramis held himself that just seemed to radiate power. He pressed a little closer to Athos' side and felt his fingers grip his shoulder a little tighter.

“While my beloved is the most physically intimidating and certainly the strongest of us,” Aramis said, gazing sideways at Porthos.

Whatever he'd been about to say never quite made it out of his mouth as he just quietly gazed at his lover. Athos picked up his train of thought.

“Porthos is easier to... handle,” he said, quietly. He smiled down at d'Artagnan where he was burrowed under his arm. “It's easier for your mind to manage the blunt force of Porthos. He hits like a hammer and it winds you instantly but you pick yourself up easily. Aramis, however...”

D'Artagnan's gaze travelled over to Aramis who was sat serenely in his armchair, swilling the wine in his glass.

“Aramis gets under your skin,” Porthos said softly. His face was still warm but the simple shift in Aramis' demeanour had Porthos yearning to be closer. Suddenly the gentle throbbing that had dulled seemed to flare up and his whole body ached for Aramis.

Aramis tilted his head slightly as he looked Porthos over. He saw the unspoken want in his eyes and smiled softly, nodding.

D'Artagnan pressed closer to Athos, his hand gripping Athos' thigh nervously as Porthos slid to the floor and shuffled the short distance to Aramis' feet where he settled cross-legged and wrapped an arm around Aramis' leg.

“He gets under your skin,” Porthos said again, his voice stronger. “I pack a punch and, as Athos put it, can certainly wind you with ease but Aramis is a surgeon. He'll pick you apart, piece by piece, and can play you like an instrument.”

“All of you,” Athos said softly, smiling at his friends. “He'll use your mind just as much, keep you exactly where you need to be.”

“Or rope,” Aramis said, brightly.

A low chuckle ran through the room, seemingly breaking the atmosphere, and d'Artagnan sat up a little but stayed curled up, leaning against Athos' body.

“Or chains on very special occasions,” Porthos said, grinning up Aramis.

“Or even Porthos,” Athos pointed out.

“Indeed. He is my greatest weapon,” Aramis agreed, stroking Porthos' hair, tightening his grip for just a second and smiling at the involuntary shudder of pleasure it caused.

“Joking aside, Aramis,” Athos said, drawing their attention. “How are you?”

“It throbs constantly. I... We are changing the dressing tonight to check it's healing. It will take time for the flesh to... fill out,” Aramis answered. He kept stopping to lick his lips, finding his mouth constantly going dry.

“Not what I meant,” Athos said gently.

Aramis took nearly a full minute to answer. His hand never left Porthos' hair while he stared at a spot somewhere on the wall.

“Sleeping is still hard,” he said, finally. “I still get...” he trailed off again before blowing his breath out through his teeth. “I still get frightened. I'm still often tearful. I'm still clinging to my Porthos. There's still a lot of me that remains under her power and I'm still struggling to reclaim it all,” he said finally in a rush.

There was a tense silence in the room. Athos was nodding thoughtfully, finally having the tearful expression on his friend's face explained. Aramis was staring fixedly at the wall, his jaw clenched. D'Artagnan wanted badly to say something but had no idea what to say. It wasn't like he had any magic words to wash away Aramis' more invisible wounds.

Porthos, too, was silent but his large hand was firmly wrapped around Aramis' ankle. He lay his cheek on Aramis' thigh and rubbed gently against the soft leather. Long fingers moved from his hair to stroke his upturned cheek, trailing through his beard.

Athos watched from the sofa as Porthos' face turned up to look at Aramis and they shared a remarkably tender look. He glanced down at the Gascon curled up under his arm and found a hesitant, slightly frightened look. He leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to his soft lips.

“It's time for us to be leaving,” Athos said, releasing d'Artagnan.

“Are you sure?” Porthos asked, tearing his eyes away from Aramis to glance at their friends.

“We are,” Athos replied, answering for them both.

“We have plans,” Aramis reminded Porthos in a whisper.

Porthos looked back up at Aramis and saw the soft smile on his face, remembering their discussion about being naked together and nodded.

“Not that we don't love having you,” Aramis clarified to their friends who were now pulling their boots on, having reached the safety of the floorboards beyond the rug. He saw the look of confusion and hurt on d'Artagnan's face and felt a pang of guilt. “Unless you would prefer to stay,” he added.

Athos had his hand on d'Artagnan's lower back and shook his head at Aramis.

“We'll be fine. We're staying in my rooms tonight,” he said, by way of explanation.

“OK,” Aramis said, awkwardly.

He watched as Athos gave a small bow in their direction before ushering d'Artagnan out the door. It was impossible to stop the sudden flare of guilt at seeing their youngest member's dismay. It was quickly followed by a flare of anger that his own pain should be concealed or managed for the benefit of someone else.

The anger faded as quickly as it flared, seeing Porthos below him, his eyes closed again. Of course he should be doing what he could to minimise their pain. The faster he got through his own, the better for everyone. He stroked a wide path across Porthos' upturned face and smiled when his eyes opened.

“Let me see my handiwork,” he said quietly.

Porthos stood and without preamble began to shed his clothes. Only once in their years together had Aramis asked Porthos to make getting undressed 'a show' and he'd been so adorably flustered by the idea it had been amusing more than arousing. Instead Aramis watched as Porthos stripped with his usual unconscious grace, more beautiful in his methodical obedience than he would ever be in a false show of arrogance.

Porthos bent to pick up his underwear, the last item to be shed, and gave Aramis a small smile before turning his back on him. He felt the eyes on his still heated flesh long before he felt fingers stroke gently across the skin.

“How bad is it?” Aramis asked.

“I think there's definitely some bruising but mostly just sore and hot Sire,” Porthos answered honestly.

“I think more will bruise than you realise but I'm satisfied it won't be an unusual amount,” Aramis said, unable to resist pressing his fingers against a particularly dark purple patch on the most outward curve of Porthos' left buttock.

“You thought it might be?” Porthos asked.

“It was just the first time I hurt you since coming home and it was... With it being so unintentional I was concerned I'd let myself go too far,” he admitted, tapping Porthos' hip to turn him around.

“Never, Sire. You're too.. exact,” Porthos said, smiling as Aramis rose to his feet.

“Too much like a surgeon?” Aramis asked. He stretched up and kissed Porthos lightly before he thought about what he was doing.

Porthos blinked in surprise and smiled tentatively at Aramis who was looking shocked.

“Still with me?” he asked, reaching out to take Aramis' hand.

Aramis nodded, a small smile spreading across his own face. He smiled more broadly when Porthos lifted his hand to kiss it. It wasn't the first time he'd kissed Porthos since returning but it was the first time he'd done so without thinking.

“I love you,” Aramis said, simply.

“Love you too,” Porthos said, kissing Aramis' hand again.

“Help me to the table. Where did you put my kit?”

“It's in the other bedroom,” Porthos answered, taking Aramis' arm and guiding him to their large dining table.

“Fetch,” Aramis said, grinning.

Porthos rolled his eyes and departed to do as he said.

“Water, too?” he called back.

“Yes please,” Aramis answered.

He was stood leaning on the table, undoing the laces on his breeches one-handed. It took several deep breaths but eventually he undid the laces on his braies as well, letting them drop to the ground. He sat down slowly and removed his shirt, just as Porthos was returning, bag and bowl in hand.

“Should I warm the water, Sire?” Porthos asked, making no remark about Aramis' nudity, for which the slender man was grateful.

“As it is will be fine,” Aramis replied, his voice shaking slightly.

Without needing to be asked, Porthos slid to his knees but instead of settling directly in front of Aramis, he was slightly to one side. Aramis gave him a weak smile of gratitude since the slight modification of position made it somewhat less sexual.

Porthos couldn't stop himself watching as Aramis undid the bandages and inspected the hole in his thigh. He bit his lip to stop himself saying anything. It didn't seem to be getting any smaller. It was still ragged around the edges, the fabric Aramis was removing was still bloody but with noticeable dry patches now.

“It _is_ better, mi vida,” Aramis said quietly, seeing his reaction.

“Doesn't look it,” Porthos said, frowning. He rose up on his knees a little to look as Aramis cleaned carefully around the wound. He reached out and gripped Aramis' ankle gently when a hiss of pain came from above him. Silence filled the room as Aramis soaked some clean strips of cloth before repacking the wound and binding it again.

“Going to need more cloth,” Aramis said quietly as his deft fingers tied the familiar knot on his thigh.

“I'll go tomorrow,” Porthos answered, looking up at Aramis.

Aramis nodded in reply and carefully stood, beckoning Porthos to do likewise. His hands shook slightly when he grasped Porthos'. He took strength in the dry, familiar warmth of them and placed them lightly on his own hips before mirroring the position with his own.

Slowly, Aramis closed the distance between them by pressing his lips to Porthos' again. He couldn't help smiling when he felt the lips under his curve as well. Without breaking contact, he parted his lips slightly and felt the surprised jolt run through Porthos.

“Mi sol?” Porthos asked, barely moving his lips.

“Love you,” Aramis whispered in reply.

For a long time they stood together, lips touching, moving against one another slowly, lazily. Aramis' smile widened as they kissed, feeling an empowering sense of ownership passing through him. With each movement of their parted lips, Aramis felt like he was being reclaimed.

“Kiss me,” Aramis breathed.

Porthos groaned happily and the hands on Aramis' hips gripped slightly as his mouth parted a little more. He flicked his tongue out to pass across Aramis' parted lips and gave another pleased shudder when Aramis' came out to meet him.

Their kiss didn't increase in speed or passion but there was a certain deep exploration that wasn't there before. Their tongues rubbed against one another, massaging, seeking, feeling their ways.

Several unhurried minutes later Aramis finally broke the kiss, his eyes alight again, the black sparkle back in them. He tipped his head back and laughed lightly as Porthos began to press feather light kisses all over his mouth. His lips brushed against the over-grown moustache, the curled beard, the bare skin around his bottom lip.

He knew what was happening and he welcomed it. Each peck, each kiss, each of the lightest touches erased the way she had touched him, replacing it with Porthos' mark. Each cleansing touch removed the defiled patches, reclaiming the skin for love, rather than her hatred.

“Porthos,” he laughed.

“Love you,” Porthos said urgently.

He dipped his head and began to pay the same gentle attention to the column of Aramis' throat, never doing anything more than lightly kiss.

“Mmm. I love you too, mi vida. So much,” Aramis hummed.

He moved his hands slightly to run up Porthos' back, pressing fingertips into the bare shoulder blades. Predictably, Porthos' hands began to move as well but instead of simply moving to embrace, the hands began to trace the wounds on his back, restlessly passing across the marred skin.

The reason for Porthos' lack of calm was evident against Aramis' leg and he chuckled lightly. A small dip of the head later and Aramis reclaimed Porthos' mouth, kissing with passion and fervour this time. It became less calm and far more ardent as Aramis' left hand moved round to grip Porthos' still soft length.

“Sire,” Porthos groaned, unable to stop himself bucking into Aramis' hand.

“I know,” Aramis murmured, quickly stroking Porthos to hardness.

He could feel his own body responding again, a tingle in his abdomen starting as heat blossomed in his chest. The fingers on his back dug in slightly and Aramis hissed in pain as they found the still present whip marks.

“Sorry, sorry,” Porthos mumbled into their fervent kiss.

“S'OK,” Aramis murmured. “Touch me, Porthos.”

Porthos groaned again and slowly slid one of his hands down and around Aramis' body. Fingers unerringly found Aramis' soft member and stroked gently along its length.

It took less than a second.

The heat that had been building under his skin disappeared in an instant and it felt as though his entire body was plunged into an icy river. His entire body went rigid as he felt her fingers on him again. It was worse this time. This time he wanted it. Desire was still coursing through yet with her fingers on him... He was responding to her touch. He mustn't. Couldn't. No. Her hands...

It took Porthos a precious couple of seconds to realise but in that time Aramis' face and chest had drained of all colour and his entire body was stiff as a board.

“Sire,” he whispered, searching his face. “Aramis? Love?”

Within seconds he'd moved his hands to grip Aramis' upper arms and rubbed them firmly.

“Aramis? Come back. It's me. You're safe. It's me. Your Porthos. Come back to me. I'm here,” he said, his voice low and urgent.

There was absolutely movement from Aramis' body but worse than that there was absolutely no sign of recognition in his eyes. He clenched his fists in panic around Aramis' upper arms and shook him slightly.

“Aramis!” he shouted, growing desperate.

Still nothing.

Staring around wildly, Porthos thrust his hand into the bowl of bloodied water and splashed a large amount into Aramis' face. While this got a reaction, it seemed to make things worse. From the stoic, frozen face, Aramis now looked utterly terrified yet still utterly unseeing. There was a wild, horrified look in the intelligent black eyes and Porthos was completely lost what to do. He thought of all the times Aramis had woken with nightmares before but normally physical contact helped and Porthos wasn't sure that would help this time.

“Aramis,” he whispered.

The broken tone in his voice seemed to get to Aramis slightly and a shudder ran through him. His body twisted in Porthos' grasp but then his leg gave out and he nearly fell.

“Porthos?” Aramis whispered, utterly broken.

“I'm here, love. I'm here,” Porthos whispered back.

“Help me,” he gasped.

Taking a breath, Porthos scooped Aramis up and took a few short paces back to the sofa, depositing Aramis on his back. Instantly, Aramis drew himself into a tight ball, curling on his side. Porthos debated whether to do anything else and settled for just pulling his underwear back on and throwing his shirt on. If it was the idea of sexual contact that had upset Aramis, this couldn't do any harm. He settled close to Aramis' head and hovered his hand helplessly over the man's hair.

It was the most frightening thing Porthos had ever seen. Neither of them were new to having nightmares, Aramis least of all. He regularly had disturbed sleep but never appeared locked in like this. Porthos felt tears pricking at his eyes seeing Aramis so lost in his own head and leaned his chin on the edge of the sofa.

“Come back, Sire,” he whispered. “It's me. Please. Come back, love. It's safe here. I promise.”

A dramatic shudder ran through Aramis' entire body and he turned his face against the sofa. Seconds later his entire body began to shake with violent sobs.

Without thinking Porthos raised his hand to stroke Aramis' hair but froze just after touching it, unsure of what to do. He slowly withdrew his hand but it just seemed to make Aramis sob louder. Replacing his hand, he just held it still, stroking his thumb back and forth in the black waves.

“Shh. Shh,” he murmured. “I'm right here, love. I'm here. You're safe here, Aramis. It's just me. I've got you.”

He kept up the constant stream of mumbled reassurances while Aramis continued to cry into the cushioned furniture. When he finally went quiet, Porthos realised tears were streaming down his face, too.

“Porthos?” Aramis whispered after a few minutes of silence.

“m'here,” Porthos whispered back, his voice cracking.

With great effort, Aramis lifted his head from the cushions to peer at Porthos. There were wide wet tear tracks down his face and he looked utterly helpless.

“I'm so sorry,” he said hoarsely.

“No, Sire. I shouldn't have... You weren't... Aramis,” Porthos replied, unable to gather words together.

“You shouldn't... I...” Aramis began but he, too, trailed off also unable to reply.

The two of them stared at each other in a mutually defeated silence. There was nothing either of them could say to the other. They were both painfully aware that neither were at fault and yet equally felt a weight of guilt.

It was only when one of the candles on the wall sputtered and went out that Aramis realised they must have been sat like that for hours.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice calmer. “You don't doubt that, do you?”

“God no, Sire. Never. I love you too,” Porthos replied instantly. He, too, was much calmer but the air was heavy with anguish.

“How can I help?” Porthos asked.

“Take me to bed,” Aramis answered, sounding exhausted.

“Do you need...” Porthos trailed off, unsure how his question without making Aramis uncomfortably aware of his nudity.

He didn't succeed as Aramis' face tightened and he swallowed nervously. Porthos sat still as a statue as Aramis' intelligent eyes flickered across his face, his eyebrows drawn together in thought.

“I... No,” Aramis replied.

“Are you sure, love?” Porthos asked.

“Yes,” he answered, firmly.

Porthos was still slightly stunned and it took him a few seconds to realise Aramis was uncurling his long limbs from around himself and getting ready to stand.

“Up,” Aramis said, sharply.

Porthos blinked in surprise at the tone but complied all the same. He rose to his feet and instinctively raised his hands to help Aramis.

“Stand still,” Aramis said, his tone biting.

Porthos frowned at Aramis and, for less than a second, the stern expression on his lover's face melted into something fearful, pleading, a slightly lost expression that made Porthos' heart ache. Recognising it for the request for reassurance it was, Porthos immediately dropped his arms to his sides and stood straight, as if on parade.

Aramis dragged himself to his feet, his leg still throbbing angrily after the lurch and fall, to examine Porthos. Limping violently, he made himself circle Porthos, drawing strength from his still, steady form. While he was taking great comfort in being able to be so demanding and strict, he couldn't resist gently squeezing Porthos' hip, his thumb stroking slightly as he did so. There was a soft hum from Porthos that meant he understood the tender touch as a thank you.

He continued his circle around Porthos' body before his leg began to tremble and he sat himself down on the sofa, in front of Porthos again.

“Time for bed. Tidy up please,” Aramis said softly.

Porthos smiled gently down at him, welcoming the please in Aramis' speech again. He turned away and quickly began to move around their home, tidying away their discarded clothes, Aramis' medical kit. It wasn't that Aramis needed to say please and thank you when ordering Porthos to do things but he very rarely missed saying it. He was simply polite like that. He'd once said that just because Porthos was his property it didn't mean he had to forget his manners. Hearing it back in Aramis' vocabulary meant that he'd regained at least some of his confidence that he could still be “The Boss”.

As he rebuckled the strap around Aramis' medical kit, he heard the man moving. Turning to look, he saw Aramis limping towards him, pain etched on his face.

“You OK, Sire?” he asked.

“No but I'm coping,” Aramis answered, his teeth clenched. “Thank you, but I won't need your assistance,” he added as Porthos took a step towards him.

“Yes Sire,” Porthos said, trying hard not to be stung by the dismissal as turned to the bowl of water.

“Eres mi fuerza,” Aramis whispered as he moved past Porthos, trailing his fingers across Porthos' waist as he passed.

“I don't know that word.”

“Strength,” Aramis murmured as he moved into their spare bedroom where they kept their chamber pots.

Porthos took a breath as the door closed. It was his job to be there for Aramis and if he needed to do a few things on his own, so be it. He tossed the water out of the window in the kitchen before setting the bowl by the door. They'd need more tomorrow. He took another deep breath and braced himself on the small table, fingers tracing the deep gouges that had been there since before they'd bought it.

This was how Aramis found him, less than a minute later.

“Querido?” he asked, quietly.

“I'm so angry,” Porthos said, without opening his eyes.

Aramis didn't need to ask. It wasn't about his reaction, his current limitations or him at all. It was just the entire situation. There was no easy fix, no magic words he could say to ease Porthos' frustration.

Instead he limped over and wrapped his arms around Porthos' body, plastering himself to the man's back. He rested his cheek between his shoulder blades.

“I love you,” Aramis murmured.

“I love you too,” Porthos answered but he sounded hopeless.

Aramis shifted his arms slightly, lowering them until they found their way under Porthos' shirt, which was gaping open as he leaned his hands on the battered table.

“I will keep saying it, mi vida,” Aramis said quietly. “It is my reminder that we're what matters. All this other upset is just dirt from a long ride.” As he spoke, Aramis began to stroke wide paths across Porthos' chest, feeling Porthos beginning to relax in his arms. “Together we will wash it off but some bits of dirt are stubborn and will take a few attempts to remove.”

“You aren't tainted,” Porthos protested, trying to turn.

“Shh,” Aramis soothed, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of Porthos' shirt like a cat. “I didn't mean it like that. I still struggle with that, yes, but that isn't what I meant at all. I just meant that it always takes us time after any kind of mission or trip to ease muscle strains, repair garments or heal wounds.”

“We're still healing,” Porthos said and this time it was he that sounded utterly exhausted.

“We are,” Aramis agreed. He stood and withdrew his arms from Porthos' chest, giving him a slight tap to turn around. “Clothes off,” he said, smiling.

Porthos still looked weary when he obeyed but obey he did, pulling his shirt off with one hand. Aramis began to stroke his chest while Porthos undid his braies, letting them pool at their feet while they stood together, bare in the kitchen.

“Hop up onto the table,” Aramis said, still smiling.

Porthos did so, his face turning curious. He couldn't, however, stop the small grimace when his still bruised flesh hit the table.

“Sore?” Aramis smirked.

“Bastard,” Porthos answered.

Aramis just shrugged and stepped between Porthos' knees. He wrapped his arms around Porthos, tugging him forwards until he was close enough to hug back. The table, however, set Porthos at a different angle so while they were both nude, their genitals didn't touch.

Aramis' naked body was tense in Porthos' arms. Porthos realised his was probably tense, too. They were both stung by the waking nightmare Aramis had been thrown into last time. It was several minutes before Porthos realised they were both quietly stroking each other's back and he smiled into Aramis' hair, the tension leaking out of him. He heard Aramis make a small happy sigh as he, too, relaxed.

“Your leg,” Porthos murmured as he felt Aramis beginning to shake.

“Bed,” Aramis said drowsily.

“Yes Sire,” Porthos said softly.

“Need a lift?”

“No thank you. I have enough strength left for this,” Aramis answered, standing up and reluctantly stepping out of Porthos' embrace. “Visit the other room and join me.”

Porthos nodded and slid off the table, groaning as the abraded flesh was drawn across the wood. He rolled his eyes at Aramis' smirk.

Halfway across the living room was when Aramis regretted his decision to walk. Each step was sending agony up and down his leg and he was navigating by bits of furniture to lean against. He was eyeing the handhold free distance between their large dining table and the bedroom door when Porthos returned from using the pot and tilted his head.

“Need a lift?” he repeated, amused.

“No,” Aramis said, stubbornly. “Fire and clothes.”

Porthos gave Aramis a crooked smile before moving to extinguish their fire and collect his discarded clothes from the kitchen floor. He returned to Aramis' side, exactly where he'd left him.

“Need a-”

“Arm. I need an arm,” Aramis said, cutting him off.

“Of course, Madame,” Porthos said, airily, holding his arm out as if taking a stroll.

Aramis gave a very undignified snort of laughter and Porthos grinned before wrapping his arm around Aramis' waist and supporting the majority of his weight as they crossed the short distance to their bedroom.

Aramis sat heavily on the bed and smiled when Porthos immediately slipped to his knees.

“Eres el hombre más hermoso ,” Aramis said, watching him. “Mi hombre magnífico.”

“Spanish,” Porthos mumbled but the way he shifted uncomfortably let Aramis know he'd understood it was a compliment, anyway.

“Come on,” Aramis said, smiling and patting the bed.

In less than five minutes, they were settled in bed together. Porthos was on his back, Aramis curled against his side, nuzzling against his chest.

“You sure you're OK?” Porthos asked, skimming his hand down Aramis' bare back.

“Oh Porthos,” Aramis sighed. “I was so lost in that terrible world, not understanding where I was, who was touching me, what I was feeling... Then I saw your face.”

“My face?” Porthos asked, settling his hand in the unruly black waves of hair.

“You're where I should be. It was like a nightmare... I got lost but you found me. I'm fine now,” Aramis explained. “Well... I'm fine for now. Pain flared up and it took me a little while to batten it back down.”

“Do you think... Did we push it?”

“Perhaps,” Aramis admitted. “I won't hold myself back from doing it again, though.”

“But it hurt, Sire,” Porthos mused, his fingers lifting the tangled hair and massaging the scalp underneath.

“So does my leg. So did my arm. I can't live in fear of being myself,” Aramis said, firmly.

There was quiet in the room while Porthos' fingers began to rub at Aramis' scalp more firmly. He nuzzled into Porthos' chest happily, humming with pleasure at the sensation.

“You're so strong,” Porthos murmured.

“I have you,” Aramis replied simply.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis unwinds with his friends

When dawn finally broke through the open window, it came as something of a relief to them both. Neither man had rested properly. However sure they were they could support each other, it had still been a painful day and the nightmares had come thick and fast. Aramis wasn't entirely certain he'd even fallen asleep for some of them, simply feeling the memories crash over him in the darkness.

“Awake?” he mumbled.

“Yes Sire,” Porthos answered.

“You feel very far away,” Aramis said quietly.

He had turned over during the night and now lay with his back to Porthos. The cool air between them felt heavy and unfamiliar.

“You didn't... Being close didn't seem to help,” Porthos said as he moved closer.

Aramis leaned back and felt an uncomfortable sense of guilt at the pain in Porthos' voice. They normally slept touching at all times and however much he understood Aramis' pain, the marksman knew it would feel like rejection to Porthos.

“It will now,” Aramis murmured and he leaned back slightly as Porthos' body came into contact with his.

The larger man tightened an arm around Aramis' waist and gave him a squeeze, pulling their bodies flush together. A second later and he'd buried his head into the back of Aramis' wavy hair, inhaling deeply.

Aramis idly stroked Porthos' arm and smiled to himself when it felt suddenly heavy as Porthos fell asleep in barely more than a minute. It seemed Porthos, too, had hardly slept at all. Aramis wondered if it was his own upset keeping him awake or some sort of transferred pain at the turmoil Aramis was experiencing. While he was fairly certain it was the latter, there wasn't much he could do about it and the constant guilt wasn't going to help. With Porthos' arm around him he, too, managed to fall into a light doze but it wasn't long before flutters of unease woke him up with a small start.

Sighing, he decided to give up on sleeping and gradually eased himself out from under Porthos' arm and stood up slowly. The exertion of the previous day, specifically the near collapse, had made his leg remarkably tender. It took him several minutes to get dressed, during which time Porthos rolled onto his back and began to snore loudly. Aramis smiled tenderly down at him for a minute before hobbling into the living room. He left the door wide open so Porthos would know where he was and made his way slowly to the kitchen, collecting the cane on the way, which made it much easier.

Porthos joined him, rubbing blearily at his eyes, less than an hour later. Aramis was sat at the small table, writing a list and while he didn't look up when Porthos joined him, he did smile.

“Mornin' love,” Porthos said, yawning widely. He dropped into the chair opposite Aramis and grunted in pain.

Aramis smirked.

“Told you it would bruise,” he said.

“Uh huh. What are you doing?”

“A list of things I need you to collect at the market today,” Aramis answered.

Porthos twisted, trying to read Aramis' words upside down.

“Bloody long list,” he observed.

“I'd help if I could,” Aramis answered, looking up finally.

Porthos winced when he finally saw Aramis' face. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles under them. He looked exhausted and desperately sad.

“I look that frightful?” Aramis asked, pushing his chair back and standing up.

“You look gorgeous,” Porthos answered.

Aramis rolled his eyes and limped around the table to where Porthos was sat, gesturing for him to move his chair back.

“Your face disagrees,” he said.

“You look less gorgeous than normal, I'll admit,” Porthos said, grinning. “But still gorgeous.”

Aramis made to straddle Porthos' lap but pain shot through his leg so he settled for sitting sideways on it, wrapping an arm around Porthos' shoulders.

“You flatter me,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos opened his mouth to reply but long fingers stroked across his lips, silencing him. The fingers stroked gently across his face, tracing the line of the scar on his face, the line of his lips, trailing in the curls of his beard. Porthos closed his eyes, preening under the gentle touches and smiled when the shift of Aramis' weight signalled his intent.

Their kiss was gentle and unhurried but their parted lips were full of emotion. Porthos could feel Aramis' mouth trembling and he raised his hand to stroke the man's cheek, his thumb coming away wet.

“You're mine,” Aramis whispered as he pulled away, eyes flickering back and forth between Porthos'.

“Yes Sire,” Porthos answered. “You're mine, too, y'know.”

Aramis nodded fervently and kissed Porthos again, letting more passion seep into it. Their lips moved with more speed and as the hand Porthos was resting on Aramis' hip tightened, the slender man began to grow more possessive and demanding. His own hand gripped Porthos' hair tightly, tugging his head back and continuing to deepen the kiss as the movement made the man's mouth fall open. With his free hand, he stroked firmly across Porthos' chest, seeking the opening in his shirt as his fingers toyed with one dark nipple.

“You're mine,” Aramis murmured again and dipped his head to kiss and suckle lightly on Porthos' exposed throat, the hand in his hair keeping his head tilted back uncomfortably.

“Yes Master,” Porthos gasped. His left arm was wrapped around Aramis' hips, hand still gripping Aramis' opposite hip keeping him in place.

Aramis nuzzled his way back up Porthos' throat and covered his mouth in another demanding, rough kiss swallowing the groan as the hand on Porthos' chest gave his nipple a sharp twist.

Porthos' free hand came up and fluttered for a moment before dropping helplessly back to his side, a motion that didn't go unnoticed by Aramis who smirked.

As Aramis kissed him, Porthos felt more and more teeth creeping in, nipping at his bottom lip, scraping against his tongue. Fingernails began to join the painful pressure on his nipple and he couldn't stop his body responding as the pleasurable pain meshed with the joy of feeling Aramis' domination flow naturally again. His hips bucked under Aramis' body and this seemed to be the reaction Aramis was waiting for as the pale man immediately withdrew both hands and mouth, sitting upright and releasing Porthos' hair.

“Sire,” he groaned, recognising Aramis' expression.

“You're so gorgeous when you're needy,” his lover murmured, stroking his face.

“Sire,” Porthos repeated, but this time his frustration was tinged with amusement.

“Shopping,” Aramis said lightly, patting his cheek before standing up.

  
  


  
  


 

  
  


Aramis was trimming his beard when Porthos returned a couple of hours later with d'Artagnan and Athos in tow.

“Well don't you look handsome?” d'Artagnan exclaimed.

“He always does,” Porthos answered, following the Gascon through the door and nudging him towards the kitchen.

“You're biased,” Aramis called after him, examining his reflection in the looking glass on the wall.

“He's not wrong,” Athos said quietly, closing the door behind him and walking close to Aramis, who watched his approach in the mirror.

Aramis lifted his blade to an identified uneven patch and caught Athos' eye over his shoulder, reflected behind him.

“What?” he asked.

“You look tired,” Athos observed.

“I am,” Aramis admitted.

They stared for long seconds at one another and Aramis gave Athos a small smile. In reply, Athos lifted his hand and squeezed Aramis' shoulder affectionately.

“There's a cart waiting downstairs,” Athos said quietly. “I think you need to get out so Porthos suggested the normal stop we use when we travel.”

Aramis brightened considerably at the thought and held his hand out for the walking cane. Athos offered his arm as well and the two of them made their way down the stairs. Porthos and d'Artagnan followed after a few minutes after locking up the house and bundling up some luncheon.

The four of them made their way to the clearing, a few miles outside of Paris. Porthos and Athos drove the two horses while Aramis and d'Artagnan lounged in the back. D'Artagnan was the chattiest among them and by the time they felt Athos pull the cart off the road, Aramis felt he knew every single person that had passed through the garrison in his absence.

Porthos helped Aramis down from the cart and he hobbled the few steps down to the river bank. He shed his boots and hose, rolling his trousers up a few inches to dangle his bare feet in the rapid stream.

“Why don't you take Porthos downstream and swim for a while,” Athos suggested.

Porthos raised his eyebrows but Aramis, knowing full well how much the two of them enjoyed the opportunity to swim, nodded his assent, leaving him sat on the bank with Athos who was watching him with his normal inscrutable face in place.

“Subtle. Trying to get me alone?” Aramis asked, amused.

“Porthos says you're doing better,” he said quietly, ignoring the jibe.

“I think I am. Yesterday after you left was... difficult,” he admitted.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Athos asked.

“I'm not sure,” Aramis answered.

“What happened?”

“I felt ready to do something and wasn't,” Aramis said, staring at his bare feet in the water. He looked up in surprise when Athos' hand closed around his own on the bank between them. He turned to find Athos looking at him, his grey eyes fixed like lasers on Aramis'.

“What happened?” Athos repeated, his voice softer.

  
  


  
  


  
  


When Porthos returned with d'Artagnan an hour later, it was to find their brothers and lovers in the same position, side by side on the river bank with their feet trailing in the deep stream, their hands clasped together between them. Athos looked up at their approach, tipping his head back to see them from under his hat.

“Why didn't you take your clothes off before swimming?” he asked, frowning slightly at d'Artagnan who was soaking wet, carrying his doublet in one hand, which was also dripping.

“I was trying to,” d'Artagnan grumbled, shooting a dark look at Porthos whose hair was wet but his clothes appeared dry.

“You pushed him in?” Athos asked, lifting an eyebrow at Porthos who was passing him.

“Would I?” asked Porthos, feigning innocence. He cast a habitual glance around the clearing before leaning down and pressing a kiss into Aramis' hair.

“Yes!” d'Artagnan protested, dropping to the floor and sitting cross-legged beside Athos, grimacing as the water on his breeches made the leather protest.

“I did not push you in,” Porthos said, smugly. He made his way to the cart parked nearby and rummaged for the pack of food he, Athos and d'Artagnan had prepared.

“You liar!” d'Artagnan laughed, pushing the wet hair out of his eyes.

“Did you **pull** him in?” Athos asked, amused.

There was no answer and Athos smirked. His eyes swept the clearing before he took d'Artagnan's hand and brushed the knuckles with his lips.

“Better now?” he asked quietly.

D'Artagnan's pout broke into an easy smile and he leaned back on his elbows, turning his face to meet a ray of sunlight between the trees.

A few minutes later Porthos joined them and they turned reluctantly from the river bank to sit in a loose circle around the small pile of food Porthos had brought over.

“You alright?” Porthos asked, searching Aramis' face.

“Athos knows,” Aramis answered.

“Knows?”

“Knows what happened in the Court,” Aramis explained.

Porthos nodded to himself, the redness around Aramis' eyes explained.

“Forgive me, d'Artagnan. I do not have the strength to go through it again,” Aramis said, wearily.

“I didn't ask,” d'Artagnan replied, startled slightly.

“No. But you deserve to know as well. You're one of us, d'Artagnan. You're my brother and you should know if you're going to continue to be involved with resolving the situation,” Aramis answered, smiling softly. “Athos, will you go through it with him?”

“I will,” Athos replied, simply.

Porthos didn't say anything but he squeezed back when Aramis' hand closed around his.

They ate in silence for a few minutes until d'Artagnan quietly spoke again.

“I don't need to know,” he said.

“Hmm?” Aramis asked, raising an eyebrow.

“To stand by you. To defend you. I don't need to know what happened to risk my life for you,” d'Artagnan said.

“I appreciate your sentiment, my friend, but I would like us all to be on an even footing,” Aramis answered. “I just don't have the strength to go through it a third time.”

“OK,” d'Artagnan said and he gave Aramis a small smile.

 

As the afternoon wore on, Porthos and d'Artagnan began to spar while Athos remained by Aramis' side to watch.

“I think you've more strength than you realise,” he said quietly.

“Not how it felt yesterday,” Aramis hummed quietly, stroking his beard.

“I think it's just going to happen,” Athos said, shrugging slightly. “I don't agree that you pushed yourself too far too soon. I think we've all felt a wound was healed and then twisted suddenly or felt pain unexpectedly. Don't let yourself become too disheartened.”

Aramis was silent for a while, watching their lovers fight.

“Do you think it will dishearten Porthos?” he asked.

“If pain flares up?”

Aramis nodded and the two lapsed back into silence while Athos thought carefully about his answer.

“I think he might be more hesitant about bringing it up,” he said slowly, turning to face Aramis. “I think for all he was the one who said you shouldn't let yourself run scared, he will.”

A loud thump made them both whip their heads back to Porthos and d'Artagnan, the latter of whom seemed to have been propelled into a tree and was now on his hands and knees on the floor. As they watched, Porthos rushed to the winded man's side and rested his hand on d'Artagnan's back while the Gascon caught his breath.

“Seems a bad one,” Aramis murmured.

Athos narrowed his eyes and watched d'Artagnan clutching Porthos' arm. He studied his lover's kneeling form for a few seconds before answering.

“Just winded. He'll be fine in a minute,” Athos answered, satisfied.

“If only I was,” Aramis said, sighing.

“It's not like you to be so dramatic and self pitying,” Athos commented softly.

Aramis blinked in surprise and tore his eyes away from their brothers to stare stupidly at Athos.

“That was... unkind,” he said, slowly.

“It wasn't meant as such. It was an observation,” Athos said calmly. He took Aramis' hand and kissed it gently before laying them back on the ground, clasped between them as they were on the riverbank.

“I'm ashamed,” Aramis whispered after another minute.

“What of?” Athos asked quietly. “Of what she did to you?”

“No. How much it's affected me,” Aramis admitted.

“There's a reason we consider this crime above most others, Aramis,” he said gently. “It's OK that it's taking you time to get past it. If I'm reliably informed, you needed time to work out Savoy.”

Aramis tightened his grip on Athos' hand for a moment but nodded his understanding as they watched Porthos helping d'Artagnan to his feet.

“Don't be ashamed, brother. Talk to us as much as you like but hiding from it will just drive everything deeper,” Athos said quietly.

“Your whirlpool thoughts theory?” Aramis asked as the other two approached.

“It was Porthos',” Athos answered.

“What was mine?” Porthos asked as he helped d'Artagnan sit down.

“A theory. What happened?” Aramis answered, his eyes raking over d'Artagnan who was holding his chest.

“You weren't watching?” d'Artagnan asked, a small pout pulling the corners of his mouth down.

“Forgive me, d'Artagnan. I was being overly dramatic and self pitying,” Aramis teased, flashing a grin at Athos who rolled his eyes in reply.

“I was a bit... uh... rough,” Porthos admitted, rubbing his hand between d'Artagnan's shoulder blades.

“A bit rough?” exclaimed d'Artagnan.

“Very rough?” Porthos suggested.

“You threw me into the tree!”

“Threw? Threw is a... strong... Yeah. I threw him into the tree,” Porthos admitted, looking sheepish. An appreciative chuckle ran through the group. “What theory was mine?”

“The whirlpool theory,” Athos answered.

“Whirlpool?” d'Artagnan asked.

“It's an idea to put into words how one's negative thought pattern can grow and grow and take over one's world view,” Aramis explained.

“Like a landslide? A small piece falls and it pulls more and more with it until the whole bank has collapsed?” d'Artagnan asked.

“It was something Porthos explained to me so I could recognise when I need help,” Athos said quietly.

“When you need... their help?”

This time it was Aramis' hand that tightened between them, providing reassurance but Athos found none necessary.

“Yes,” he said, quite calmly.

“They stop the landslide?”

“Whirlpool,” Porthos interjected, grinning.

“The whirlpool,” d'Artagnan corrected himself, returning Porthos' grin.

“Yes. They pull me from within my own mind, overwhelm me, take every measure of the negativity from me and then put me back together without it,” Athos said softly.

“Oh,” d'Artagnan said after a long pause.

“Indeed,” was Athos' only reply.

After another pause, Porthos began to rub d'Artagnan's back again.

“You alright?” he asked.

“I am. That was just... It sounds so much healthier than I had imagined,” d'Artagnan admitted.

Aramis chuckled and d'Artagnan looked at him.

“You think I'd do anything unhealthy?” he asked, kindly.

“No... I just... I didn't understand,” d'Artagnan said, gazing at Aramis.

“When I need help with this injury, I will ask. You will support me, carry me if necessary, and I trust you to do that. I trusted you and Porthos to pull me out of the house today, however averse I was to being carried around like luggage in a cart,” he said quietly.

He had released Athos' hand and used both hands to shift his bad leg so he could lean forwards slightly, capturing d'Artagnan's full attention.

“When Athos and, to a certain extent, Porthos, need my help, they trust me to navigate. Their distress and panic, their upset and turmoil, they belong to me in that moment. They are mine to pull out. Any pain in that moment they are feeling should be mine. Have you ever bitten your lip to distract yourself from an injury?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmured. He had leaned back slightly against Porthos' hand but his eyes were fixed on Aramis.

“That is what I provide. By the time I am done with them, the pain and disquiet doesn't matter and when my workmanship has faded, it leaves the mind clear,” Aramis continued. His voice had regained its lyrical, soft quality. It was musical and somehow hypnotic. “If one needs my help, they will get it. I might hit, whip and cane them but it is nothing short of medicine.”

“Would you... share details?” d'Artagnan whispered, looking away from Aramis' intense black eyes to Athos' grey ones.

“They differ,” Athos answered.

“Their needs differ. Solace requires a different approach than guilt just as self loathing would require a different treatment than misery,” Aramis explained. His eyes flicked over d'Artagnan's shoulder to Porthos who was still rubbing the Gascon's back gently. “For two of us at least, however, it is simply fun,” he added, his voice dropping lower.

D'Artagnan straightened slightly, hearing something sinister dropping into Aramis' voice. He'd heard the sense of unarguable power and authority in it but not this menace. He turned his head to glance briefly at Porthos and found a look of heat in the dark eyes staring back at Aramis.

“What do you mean?” d'Artagnan asked, though he was fairly certain he knew.

“Some of the activities Aramis and Porthos use to assist me are used for recreation in their home,” Athos answered.

Porthos and Aramis seemed to shake themselves after a moment and Aramis' switched his gaze back to d'Artagnan.

“The spoon,” he said, simply.

D'Artagnan blushed slightly as he understood the meaning.

“You took it to Porthos like one would to a child?” he asked quietly.

“Oh no,” Aramis said, positively purring. “He took it like a man.”

  
  


  
  


“You will tell me if I ask too much, won't you?” d'Artagnan asked, suddenly.

He was riding in the back of the cart with Aramis who was massaging the muscle around his wound.

“Of course,” Aramis answered immediately. “Porthos and I count you as our brother and are happy to share. As you know, I will decline to answer where necessary to protect myself and Porthos but I will never stop you asking.”

“Will you protect Athos' privacy from me as well?” d'Artagnan asked though he made it sound something of a request.

“His is not mine to guard,” Aramis answered, gently. “I'd recommend if it's something you aren't sure he'd want you to know, ask him directly.”

“I worry he'll shut down if I do that,” d'Artagnan mumbled.

“Is there something specific you wish to know?”

“No. Not at the moment. Just... You're so open and he struggles to be like that. I don't want to probe into his feelings and make him shut down but I also don't want to ask you and tread on his feelings,” d'Artagnan mused.

“If you fear too much to push, you will never move forwards. Stop when it hurts, move forwards when it doesn't,” Aramis said.

Even as he said the words, he heard them in both Porthos and Athos' voices and smiled to himself.

“That's true,” d'Artagnan said, brightening.

“We can hear you, y'know,” Porthos called from the seat up front.

“You can always ask me and I will try incredibly hard to either answer or tell you I can't,” Athos said, without turning around.

Aramis watched the Gascon smile to himself and couldn't stop himself grinning slightly. He watched the scenery out the back of the cart and recognised the small houses that signalled their imminent arrival into Paris.

“I think perhaps the garrison,” he said loudly.

“You sure?” Porthos asked, casting a surprised glance at Athos beside him.

“I am. It's good to be up and about. I miss the men. I miss the Captain. I miss the sound of gunfire,” Aramis sighed wistfully from inside the cart.

“Garrison it is,” Athos said quietly, smiling sideways at Porthos who grinned back.

“Ah, my lovely. We'll soon let you stretch your legs,” Aramis' voice crooned from the cart.

“Is he talking to you?” Athos asked, glancing again at Porthos who rolled his eyes.

“It won't do to let you stay shut away. You're a beautiful thing of power. You belong in battle,” Aramis continued.

“Sounds like it,” d'Artagnan said, laughing.

“It's so important to keep you fresh and ready for a fight,” Aramis said, his own voice shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Definitely you,” Athos said, drily.

“Well cleaned,” Aramis continued, his voice growing high pitched as he tried to stop himself from laughing.

“Oh just say it!” Porthos said, laughing loudly.

“Freshly oiled,” Aramis said, finally letting himself laugh as well.

"Bloody pistol," Porthos muttered to himself.

So it was, the three of them were still laughing with Athos smiling widely as they rolled to a stop at the garrison gates. D'Artagnan helped Aramis down from the cart and Aramis conceded to taking Porthos' arm while leaning on his cane as they walked into the yard.

“Aramis!”

One man called Aramis' name and the cry was soon taken up by the other men in the yard. It was less than a minute before Aramis found himself swarmed by Musketeers, seeming to spring up out of nowhere to pat him on the back or the shoulder.

By the time Porthos had managed to steer them to their normal bench at the base of the stairs, Aramis' heart felt fit to burst. By all accounts, these men had seen him naked, bloodied, injured and delirious with thirst yet thought no less of him for getting into such a state. He beamed to himself and picked up his pistol.

“Athos?” a gruff voice said.

His heart stopped for a second and when he looked up it was to find Porthos stepping in front of him, blocking him from view of the newcomer.

“Porthos,” he murmured and he felt Porthos' reluctance as he stepped aside. He had that awful sensation of water being splashed over him as he viewed the man stood before their group.

“The short one,” Aramis said, coldly.

 


	25. Chapter 25

Aramis watched Athos propel the man up the stairs with a vice like grip on his upper arm. He pulled himself to his feet and the remaining marks on his back and chest began to tingle. Hesitating, he approached the bottom of the stairs but before he could start up them, Tréville appeared on the balcony.

Porthos held Aramis' arm for a second as the Captain hurried down the stairs towards them.

“You don't have to do this, Aramis,” he said quietly.

“I want to,” Aramis insisted. “I won't hide and I won't have things decided without me.”

The Captain and Porthos exchanged a look but didn't comment. The walk up to Tréville's office was one of the hardest things Aramis had done in a long time. Porthos was warm and present behind his back the entire way up but by the time they reached Tréville's office, Aramis' leg was shaking badly. He took a minute to compose himself before pushing the door open.

Entering, Porthos and Aramis found d'Artagnan and Athos stood like sentinels either side of Tréville's desk while the Captain himself was seated behind it. Beside him sat an empty chair, pulled from its normal place in front of the fire, which Aramis walked to and sat down, trying not to sink too heavily into it. Porthos stood behind Aramis' chair and the five of them stared at the man stood alone before them.

“Your name?” asked Tréville sharply.

“Belaine Sir,” he answered immediately.

“Why are you helping us?” Tréville barked.

“What she did... It were wrong,” Belaine said, uncomfortably.

Porthos snorted and earned himself a sharp look from both Tréville and Athos. Aramis understood, though. As much gratitude as he'd had for the man's compassion and restraint during his captivity, seeing the man who had beaten him bloody claim what **she** did was wrong was a hard pill to swallow.

“Innocent in it, are you?” Tréville asked, acknowledging their thoughts.

“No.. Just.. Following orders,” Belaine said, finishing in a lame voice.

“Do not liken what you did to anything men in the service of the Crown do,” Tréville said, rising to his feet. He leaned forwards, leaning on his knuckles on the desk. “You want to rejoin the military?”

Belaine's head snapped up at this and even Athos cast his eyes sideways to the Captain, his only outward sign of surprise at hearing of previous military service. Aramis, however, couldn't take his eyes off the man stood before them.

“Yes Sir,” he answered finally, his eyes guarded.

“Why did you leave?” Tréville asked bluntly.

“If you know I was in the military, you must know why I'm not any more,” Belaine spat.

Tréville made no answer and silence filled the room.

“They killed someone I loved,” Belaine said, finally.

“They?” barked Tréville.

“She... There was a fight,” the man answered, swallowing hard.

“You will tell me it all,” Tréville said.

Aramis leaned forwards, hungry for the man's pain. To hear more about who he was and why he'd done what he did to Aramis.

“I... went home to see her and she... They arrested me. We fought and she... She was killed,” Belaine said, still staring fixedly at the same point on the wall.

“So you fled?” Tréville asked, unmoved by the story.

“Yes,” Belaine said faintly.

“And thought that gave you licence to assault one my best men, cut him to ribbons and be complicit in his attempted murder?” Tréville asked, harshly.

Belaine went even paler and swayed a little where he stood.

“I... She would have done worse... I tried to make it less...” he muttered.

Aramis felt a surge of fury in him. While he had said those same words to Porthos, having the man stood so close to him while the marks were still actively healing made his blood boil. It seemed Tréville thought the same.

“You will own up to your crimes, admit your mistakes, acknowledge the pain you have caused or we are done here and I will make damn sure you are subjected to just as harsh a punishment as anyone else we can round up,” the Captain said, angrily. “You will cease immediately this shirking of your responsibility and acknowledge the pain you caused by your own hand.”

Belaine's eyes finally moved from the wall and met Tréville's. After less than a second they flicked to the side and met Aramis' intent gaze.

The second their eyes met, Aramis wanted to leave. Immediately. He never should have agreed to this. He wasn't ready for this. His stomach churned with the urge to throw and there was a rising sense of panic in his throat. A name to it. A face. Not the masked man who was generous. The real man with a real name who beat him, made him bleed, watched him be tortured, let her... Let Flea... It really happened... She really...

A hand pressed gently on his shoulder and he recognised Porthos' grip. It was gone in a second but Porthos seemed to have taken a step closer. He could feel the pommel of Porthos' sword brushing the back of his shoulder and tried hard to concentrate on his presence.

When he finally came back to himself, Tréville had finished speaking but Aramis hadn't heard a word of it. Belaine's eyes were filling with tears and he nodded curtly. Aramis felt the panic replaced again by a sense of rage as he saw Belaine getting upset. What the hell did he have to feel bad about after everything he'd done to Aramis?

“There... There is nothing I can say to make up for what I did,” Belaine said, hoarsely. “I thought that was my only option but it... It was just easier than... I didn't want to end up there myself. I... I felt I protected you more than anyone else would have but... I still know I need to stop her.”

Aramis couldn't move. Belaine's dark eyes found Aramis' again but his every muscle felt frozen in place. He wanted to leave. Urgently wanted to leave. He knew if he stood up and left, nobody would mind and everyone would understand. Belaine would understand as well. Aramis would not allow Belaine to think he couldn't cope.

“Yes. You do,” snapped Tréville, drawing Belaine's attention. “You will never serve in the Musketeers. You understand that?”

Belaine's eyes raked over Porthos but he didn't say anything, just gave a curt nod.

“I will endeavour to find you a place in the infantry should we get everything we wish for from Flea,” Tréville said.

“Where do we start?” Belaine asked.

  
  


  
  


When Aramis made his way down the stairs later he reached for Porthos without thinking and leaned heavily on him as they slowly made their way down. He was shaking like a leaf and not just from the pain in his leg and when he reached the bottom, d'Artagnan had to grip his other side to stop him falling.

Tréville and Athos joined them a minute later having escorted Belaine to the gates and gestured for Aramis to sit on the bench. He did so and leaned forwards, sucking in great lungfuls of air.

“You could have left, lad,” the Captain said gently, sitting beside him.

“I'm not... I wasn't going to...”

“It's not weakness,” Tréville said, cutting off Aramis' thoughts.

The marksman took a deep breath and sat himself upright again.

“Felt like it,” he said.

“I know,” Tréville said, patting Aramis' shoulder. “We should hear before sunrise whether she'll agree. Are you sure you're ready for this, Aramis? We don't have to do it so soon.”

“Yes Captain,” he answered, nodding.

“OK,” Tréville said, pushing himself to his feet. “Head on home, rest that leg and I'll send a messenger in the morning to tell you yes or no.”

Tréville gestured to the gates and Aramis looked round to see men moving towards the cart they had used.

“No Captain. No more spectacle,” he murmured.

“You aren't ready to walk that far,” Porthos said quietly, taking Tréville's vacated seat while Tréville whistled across the yard to stop them moving the cart.

“Give me some time and I will,” Aramis insisted. He unclipped his pistol and gestured meaningfully at one of the barrels nearby. Athos and d'Artagnan obligingly moved it into the centre of the yard and Porthos helped Aramis hobble over to it.

Anyone who knew Aramis would have recognised something was wrong but even as rattled as he was, his shooting was no worse than d'Artagnan's who was stood to his left.

It was less than twenty minutes later, however, when Aramis had frozen in the act of reloading.

“Aramis?” Porthos asked immediately.

“Take me home. Now,” Aramis gasped.

His skin felt too tight and there was something vibrating inside him. He couldn't concentrate and when he found himself flinching at the sound of a horse's whinny, he had to get out of there. Now. Together, an arm over each of their shoulders, Porthos and d'Artagnan half carried him across the yard to the waiting carriage. Aramis couldn't have cared less, though. He just wanted to be home, where it was safe.

As soon as he was settled in the back of the cart and it began to move, he began to shake violently. He clutched at the decorated leather of Porthos' doublet for dear life and welcomed the hand on the back of his neck, grounding him, keeping him in place.

“Porthos,” he whined.

“Nearly there,” Porthos answered, gripping Aramis' hand in his.

“OK,” Aramis whispered.

When they finally reached their home, Porthos had Aramis in his arms and was kicking the door open before d'Artagnan had even stepped down from the cart. He darted past them and unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. Porthos gently deposited Aramis in the closest armchair and rapidly kicked his boots off, kneeling to take care of Aramis'.

“Boots,” murmured Aramis.

“Never again,” Porthos answered without looking up.

Aramis exhaled heavily, looking around the room. D'Artagnan had left but Athos was stood uncertainly in the doorway.

“Stay,” he said quietly.

“Are you sure?” Athos asked.

“Yes,” Aramis murmured wearily. “I just needed to get home. Where is our d'Artagnan?”

“Returning the cart. He'll come back here,” Athos answered.

Aramis nodded and obediently stood when Porthos tugged him gently to his feet. Athos joined them, shedding his own boots along the way and together, he and Porthos slowly stripped Aramis of his pistols, belts, sash and coat.

“Thank you gentleman,” Aramis murmured, leaning forwards against Porthos as Athos drew the coat off his shoulders.

“For what?” Athos asked, quickly placing Aramis' various belongings on the stands by the kitchen doorway.

“Getting me out of there so quickly,” Aramis answered, sighing and leaning into Porthos. He made a beckoning gesture to Athos who strode back and hugged Aramis from behind.

“You had us worried, brother,” Athos said, leaning his chin on Aramis' shoulder. "You didn't have to sit through that."

“I did. I feel more proud of myself for having done it than I would have done for hiding,” he sighed.

“We're proud of you,” Porthos said quietly, wrapping an arm around Athos' back, squeezing Aramis between them.

“I love you both,” Aramis murmured. He smiled when he felt Athos press a kiss to the hair behind his ear.

They stood there for several minutes, simply holding each other as a threesome. Aramis could feel the panic and frustration draining out of him as they hugged him. After a while, he gave a small content sigh.

“Feel better?” Athos asked.

“So much better,” Aramis murmured. “Thank you.”

Athos kissed behind Aramis' ear again before stepping away. Porthos walked back a few steps, gently guiding Aramis and sat down on the sofa. Aramis stretched out on his back beside him, head in Porthos' lap. Aramis turned his head to the side as he heard a knock on the door. Athos, still standing, went to answer it and Aramis watched peacefully as he admitted d'Artagnan, the two disappearing to the kitchen. He smiled up at Porthos who had begun stroking his hair.

When they were all seated, d'Artagnan cleared his throat nervously.

“What happened?” he asked.

Aramis sighed wearily.

“I don't quite know,” he said quietly. “It was so important for me to be there, not to run, to face him. Then when I did... Having him there... unmasked... Visible... A name... I just got overwhelmed. I think I've managed to wrap it up in my head as one evil woman and her faceless minions. Having the man who held the whip suddenly named just... It took the floor from beneath me. It made everything feel so real all of a sudden. It really happened. He really did it. All of it happened.”

There was an uncomfortable silence but Porthos' hand continued stroking his hair back from his face and Aramis found he remained quite peaceful. He was just exhausted.

“So... If she agrees, we'll be meeting her at sunset tomorrow?” d'Artagnan asked, shaking himself slightly.

“Yes,” Athos said, grateful for the slight shift in focus. “The Captain will send a messenger here tomorrow morning if it's going ahead. If so, we'll have all day to occupy ourselves.”

“What shall we do?”

“I don't really want to leave Paris again,” Athos began.

Aramis smiled to himself and let his friends words wash over him. He'd faced the man who had tortured him and survived. Belaine had revealed the other two were killed in Porthos' rescue. That was a comforting thought. The only one left was Flea and if he could survive today, he could survive her. He had his friends, he had Porthos, the Captain, he even had the backing of the great and powerful Cardinal. As he listened to Porthos' quietly rumbling voice arguing with d'Artagnan about what to make for dinner tomorrow, he felt sleep pulling at him and didn't even try and fight it.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Aramis' calm didn't last through the night and when he and Porthos finally got up, both of their eyes were red with exhaustion. Given the sympathetic expressions on Athos and d'Artagnan's faces when they joined their friends at the table, Aramis' nightmares had been heard through the thin wall.

“I apologise,” Aramis said, carefully seating himself.

“No need,” d'Artagnan said, reaching across the table and gripping his hand warmly.

Porthos was the last to sit down, after making a detour to the kitchen to collect gruel for himself and Aramis. He grunted a good morning to Athos and d'Artagnan before diving in.

“I didn't realise things were so bad,” d'Artagnan said gently.

“Did Athos explain?” Aramis asked.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan replied. He squeezed Aramis' hand again before withdrawing it. Aramis nodded mutely and began to eat but found he had absolutely no appetite. “It changes nothing of how I see you. The fact that you came through that with little more than a bit of adjustment is astonishing,” the Gascon said earnestly.

“A little bit of adjustment,” echoed Aramis despondently.

“You're up. You're about. You're healing well. You're clearly managing,” d'Artagnan said, shrugging. “Sure it might be hard to deal with but you're doing it.”

Aramis blinked in surprise and tried to find something to argue with. He glanced at Porthos who was still devouring his breakfast and then at Athos who gave Aramis his trademark “told you so” smirk. Turning back to his bowl, Aramis' lips turned up into a little smile.

All four of them tensed when footsteps were heard on the stairs a few minutes later and Athos went to answer it without comment. He opened the scroll from Tréville without moving from the doorway. He scanned the few lines of writing before turning to the expectant faces seated around the table.

“Yes.”

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers come face to face with Flea

Aramis was taking deep, deep breaths trying to keep himself calm when the carriage rolled to a stop at the hunting lodge outside Paris. They hadn't spoken on the short journey but Porthos gave him a long, steady look and when he received a small nod from Aramis, ducked out the carriage. Aramis had a fleeting thought that at least he wasn't arriving like luggage on a cart today before he shook his head, forcing himself to focus. A few seconds later he followed Porthos and, leaning on the cane but otherwise unassisted, managed to walk quite upright towards the lodge.

His fear could not be denied but sheer determination won out and he came to a stop beside Porthos and gave the darker man another curt nod. They paused in the doorway until d'Artagnan and Athos had finished tying up the horses before Aramis lifted his chin and walked through the door, his friends at his back.

The fire was already crackling merrily but no other light filled the room so the shadows of the sparse furniture flickered across the walls. The trees that stood around the lodge blotted out the last of the fading light and Aramis felt a chill across his skin that had nothing to do with the temperature. Flea, Belaine and a woman none of them recognised were stood against the wall opposite the door.

The dark skinned woman raised a pistol when the Musketeers entered but three out of four of them levelled theirs at her and made an impressive sight facing her. She cast a surly glance to the side and seeing that neither of her companions had raised theirs, reluctantly lowered her own.

“Well that was worth it,” d'Artagnan said drily as they replaced their own pistols.

“Esi doesn't trust Musketeers,” Flea said, pushing away from the wall. Her confident air was still there but her eyes flitted between them all nervously.

“The Musketeers don't trust you,” d'Artagnan retorted. “How do we know she won't share what's said?”

Esi hissed at them, opening her mouth wide so they could see her tongue had been removed. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“If you have something to say to me, say it,” Flea said, arrogantly shaking her hair back from her face.

“Flea,” Porthos growled, his voice trembling with anger.

“Porthos,” she answered, faintly.

Aramis cast a sideways glance at Porthos and found him looking slightly startled by the pain in her voice.

“I should have killed you,” he said but he, too, had lost all the fire from his voice. He just sounded hollow.

“I want to speak to him alone,” Flea said, recovering some of her composure.

“Flea, I have nothing to say to you,” Porthos said. “What you did to him... The way you treated him...”

Porthos' trailed off and Aramis glanced at him again and saw the turmoil on his face. He clearly wanted to be furious but couldn't quite manage it face to face with her.

“Let's speak alone,” Flea said, trying again.

“No,” Porthos said, looking away.

Flea started to glare as she looked between Porthos and Aramis, the latter of whom continued to stare back at her. However much he had feared this, there was no way on this Earth Aramis would allow her to be close to Porthos.

“To business,” suggested Athos in the quiet. “D'Artagnan.”

The Gascon moved quickly and with Belaine's help they settled the four chairs present in the lodge in the centre of the room. Flea took one with Esi stood behind her and Athos and Aramis took two opposite with d'Artagnan and Porthos behind them respectively. The fourth they placed to one side and, slightly uncertainly, Belaine sat in it, between the two groups.

As they took their seats, Aramis tripped slightly as his cane hit a small hole in the floorboards. Porthos, who was still within arm's reach, caught his elbow and held him up. One of their silent conversations passed between them and Athos recognised it as Porthos checking Aramis was OK. What caught his attention, however, was Flea's reaction. She, too, had started forwards and in the few seconds Porthos and Aramis had looked each other a look of pain had rippled across her face.

“You have a proposal?” she asked, quickly regaining her composure.

“You understand you will not escape some measure of justice?” Athos asked.

“I know that,” she snapped, tearing her eyes away from Porthos to sneer at Athos. “I know the King needs to keep up appearances and pretend to punish me but you can't do too much to me,” she said fiercely.

“You're going to one of the Cardinal's jails,” Athos said, without preamble.

“I agreed to this meeting only because I was to be protected,” Flea said, looking rapidly between Athos and Belaine.

“Shut it,” came a growl.

“Thank you, Porthos,” Athos said sharply, without looking at him. “You will be protected. You will serve a sentence in a prison of the Cardinal's choosing to make it clear these things will not go unpunished but you will be entirely safe while incarcerated. There will be no corporal punishment or risk of death. The Cardinal has assured us you will be kept healthy, fed and free from harm during your time there.”

“The Cardinal? You're asking me to trust the Cardinal?” she asked sceptically.

“It seems to me you have very little choice in whom to place your trust,” Athos observed.

“And what of my people?” she asked, ignoring the truth in his words.

“They will be left alone, more or less. If a new leader should arise, so be it. We will not, however, be going in to destabilise or make arrests beyond our normal duties if that's your concern.”

Flea nodded thoughtfully.

“What's to stop me-”

“Telling everyone everything you know?” Athos asked, cutting her off. “First of all, your life. I make you a promise today. I will personally see to it that you die if any word of your accusations is heard. We will kill you.”

Flea paled slightly but quickly recovered. Just as she opened her mouth to reply, however, Athos cut across her again.

“Let it also be known that we four are the only people standing in the Cardinal's way. He still wishes to obliterate your... community. It has always been the compassion of the other council members towards its people that has kept it protected. If a word of what you did to two of the King's own Musketeers reaches them, that goodwill will be gone in a heartbeat,” he said quickly. “If that word reaches them at the same time as Captain Tréville explains it was you that attempted to kill two of the greatest soldiers in all of the French Army you can be sure that compassion will be immediately converted to animosity and a great desire for its destruction.”

Flea grew even paler and didn't even try to interrupt this time.

“You will not only be responsible for your death but also for the deaths of every man, woman and child left in the court when whatever machinations the Cardinal chooses to deploy are set into motion. You will be responsible for their entire community and way of life disintegrating around them,” Athos continued. “That is what's to stop you telling everyone everything you know.”

A ringing silence followed Athos' words. For the first time Esi was looking uncertain and Belaine had also gone incredibly pale.

“Flea,” Belaine said quietly, pleading slightly.

“I know,” Flea whispered.

The Musketeers let them sit in silence for a few very long minutes while Flea absorbed the information.

“How long?” she asked, finally. She seemed unable to lift her head and meet Athos' eyes and the Musketeer smelled victory.

“Cardinal Richelieu and Captain Tréville will determine that. They will both be overseeing your time in prison,” Athos answered.

“My trial?”

“No trial.”

There was another long silence in which the fire continued to crackle quietly, the flames casting shadows over her face while she thought. Athos simply watched her imperiously. He knew she understood the hopelessness of her situation.

“Porthos,” she murmured pleadingly, looking up at him.

A stony wall of silence met her. Aramis could feel Porthos shaking behind him and when Flea flicked her gaze down to meet Aramis' eyes, he shook his head. When she looked back up at Porthos, Aramis felt his hand land on his shoulder and reached up to squeeze it gently.

“I accept,” she whispered, staring at the place their hands met on Aramis' shoulder.

“Excellent. We will arrest you and Belaine tomorrow at noon in the fish market,” Athos said crisply.

“Tomorrow?” she asked, startled. “So soon.”

“Tomorrow,” Athos confirmed.

He stood to take his leave and Aramis did the same, needing Porthos' arm to pull himself up. This small gesture seemed to shake something in Flea and she stepped towards them.

“Porthos... I... I'm so... I...”

“If you try to apologise to him I will rip you apart with my bare hands,” Aramis interrupted, turning slowly to face her, his voice deadly. They were the first words he'd spoken since they'd rolled through the gates out of Paris.

Athos' hand hovered over his pistol, expecting Esi to have drawn her firearm again but nobody had moved in response to Aramis' threat.

“Porthos,” she tried again. “We shared so much. I want to-”

“You won't ever get anywhere near him again. Regardless of what you did to me, the way you treated **him** and what you did to **him** is unacceptable,” he hissed.

Flea stared at him, seemingly unable to move.

“The assumptions you made about him. The aspersions you cast on him. The entire lack of respect you gave him,” Aramis said, his voice like ice in the darkened room. “You will never **ever** get anywhere near him again.”

“You're still controlling him,” Flea spat, shocked out of her reverie.

“And you didn't?” Aramis retorted.

“I was trying to save him,” Flea said, her eyes narrowing.

“I don't care,” Aramis said, shrugging and turning her back on her. After a few seconds, his friends began to follow him from the room.

“You don't deserve him,” she called after them.

Aramis turned back and smiled slyly at her.

“Perhaps not but what you failed to realise then and still don't realise now... Porthos chose,” he said simply.

Flea looked as if she'd been slapped, staring blankly at Aramis until Porthos spoke.

“You... What you did... You broke everything we ever shared. We used to look after each other as kids and you betrayed me. Now? Nah. Nothing there,” he said thickly. His voice shook slightly but then suddenly hardened as he glared at the first woman he'd loved. “You smashed everything to pieces, Flea. Don't trust her,” he added, glancing at the still silent Esi who was looking uncertain.

The four of them made their way out, d'Artagnan bringing up the rear, still facing the trio left in the hunting lodge. It wasn't until they were rumbling along the road back to Paris that they all let themselves breathe again.

“That went OK, right?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Later,” Athos said, looking pointedly around them at the open countryside. “I need to report to the Captain. Ask if they're going home or coming to the garrison.”

D'Artagnan climbed onto the side of the carriage easily and poked his head through the window.

“Homeward bound?” he asked but quickly realised he didn't need to.

“Yes please,” Aramis answered, beaming.

D'Artagnan grinned and disappeared. Aramis watched him go and leaned back further into Porthos' arms. They were curled up together on one of the bench seats, Aramis between Porthos' legs, back to his lover's chest.

“You seem happy,” Porthos murmured, pressing his face into Aramis' hair.

“I am. I faced her. I didn't break down. I didn't freeze up. I'm not losing my mind now. I'm OK. I came through it,” Aramis said, beaming.

“You were amazing,” Porthos said quietly.

“I was terrified,” Aramis admitted. “The idea of being face to face with her scared me more than with.. him.. and yet when I saw how much she hurt you, is still hurting you... it all came flooding back to me. The bruises on your body from the beatings. Every flicker of pain my trauma causes you. Every awful thing she said. Every little way she betrayed you. I couldn't abide that. Every singe bit of it came roaring to my mind and all my fear and discomfort flew out the window.”

“I don't deserve **you** , y'know,” Porthos said, turning his head and laying his cheek atop Aramis' head.

“Let's not do that. You chose. I chose,” Aramis murmured, stroking his fingers across Porthos' hands on his stomach. “I just... You are my reason. Seeing you in pain broke through mine.”

“I know the feeling,” Porthos said, quietly.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Aramis managed the few steps to their hallway but took one long look up the stairs and glanced at Porthos. With a grin, Porthos swept Aramis into his arms and started up the stairs.

“You're not as light as you look, y'know,” he said. “You're going to have to do them eventually.”

“Are you telling me I'm not the slight, delicate woman you make me feel when you carry me so chivalrously like this?” Aramis asked.

“Idiot,” Porthos muttered as they reached the landing. He stood Aramis up again and unlocked the door, holding it open for Aramis. “Ladies first.”

“Why thank you, Monsieur,” Aramis said, fluttering his eyelashes as he passed, brushing a hand across Porthos' chest.

He stopped a foot inside the doorway and removed his hat. Fanning himself with it, he smiled over the brim as Porthos raised an eyebrow at him.

“What a lovely home you have, Monsieur Du Vallon,” Aramis said, putting a slightly higher voice on. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

A grin slowly spread across Porthos' face as he recognised the game.

“Call me Porthos, please,” he said, stepping closer.

“Porthos,” Aramis repeated, letting out a breathy giggle.

“Let me take your coat,” Porthos said seductively, his voice low.

He stood close to Aramis' back and leaned around him to unbuckle his belts. This, however, was so routine and mildly ritualistic for them that Aramis sank back against him, humming softly.

“Mi sol,” Porthos breathed, brushing his lips against the back of Aramis' neck.

“Mi vida,” Aramis replied, his eyes drifting closed.

As the long coat was pulled from his arms a few minutes later, Aramis turned and gave his head an exaggerated flick, making his hair fall into his eyes. Porthos grinned again.

“Please, take a seat,” he said, gesturing at the hearth. “Allow me to get you something to drink.”

Aramis made a noise that could only be called a titter, making Porthos roll his eyes and disappear to the kitchen. When he returned with two cups and a bottle of wine under his arm, Aramis was sat on the sofa, hands in his lap and legs crossed at the ankle, the picture of innocent modesty.

He kicked his boots off and sat down beside Aramis, pouring a cup of wine and handing to him.

“I'm not sure I should,” Aramis said and Porthos struggled to keep a straight face when the man giggled again.

“To new friends,” Porthos said, raising his cup.

“New friends,” Aramis agreed, his voice shy.

They gently knocked their cups together and both took a long drink, smirking at each other over the brims.

“You look so warm in your doublet,” Aramis said, stroking Porthos' sleeve.

“I wouldn't want to seem too forwards, undressing in front of you,” Porthos replied.

“I... I would not be averse to you being more... comfortable,” Aramis said, circling his fingers on the back of Porthos' hand.

Porthos stood and quickly shed his doublet, dropping it on the chair, before sitting back down, close enough to Aramis that their knees touched. He recognised the mischief sparkling in Aramis' dark eyes and rested his elbow on the back of the sofa, his wine in his other hand resting on his knee. Aramis was holding his cup with two hands, still perched on his knees.

“You're very beautiful,” Porthos said into the silence, tucking Aramis' hair behind his ear.

“You flatter me, Monsieur.”

“Your dark hair, your pale skin, such pretty eyes,” Porthos murmured, leaning closer.

“So forwards,” Aramis whispered, unable to hide his wide smile.

“Such soft looking lips,” Porthos continued, brushing his lips across Aramis' ear.

“Monsieur,” Aramis murmured.

“Beautiful,” Porthos said, ghosting his lips across Aramis' cheekbone.

“Th-Thank you,” Aramis whispered.

“Perhaps a kiss, hm?” Porthos suggested.

“Yes please,” Aramis said and his voice was so soft Porthos had to strain to hear it, even this close.

It took all Porthos' willpower to keep the kiss chaste and polite, in keeping with their role play. While he did manage to keep it gentle and close-mouthed, he couldn't stop himself lingering.

“OK?” Porthos asked, breathlessly. He wasn't sure if he was asking as part of the act or genuinely checking on Aramis.

“Very OK, Monsieur,” he answered and the swift smirk that crossed his lips was pure Aramis, reassuring Porthos in the process.

“Have you finished your wine?” Porthos asked, gruffly.

Aramis blinked slowly at his still almost full cup.

“I don't... I don't drink much,” he said quietly. “I've heard it can impair your judgement and cause you to make bad decisions.”

“I don't think that would be a problem,” Porthos said, his fingers trailing in Aramis' hair still. “You're too clever.”

“I am?” Aramis asked, eyelashes fluttering as he looked up through them at Porthos.

“You are. It'll be fine. Be brave,” Porthos encouraged.

Aramis downed the wine in one large gulp, his own grin challenging Porthos silently who immediately downed his, too.

“Would you like another?” Porthos asked.

“I don't think so,” Aramis answered. “I feel so unsteady.”

Porthos had to stifle a chuckle at the idea of one of them being made unsteady by a single cup of wine but instead gently took the cup from Aramis. He reached behind him and placed the wine bottle and both their cups on the floor, tucking them neatly under the sofa.

“Won't they spill?” Aramis asked, leaning around him.

“They'll be fine,” Porthos answered, leaning over slightly and nuzzling Aramis' ear.

“Are you sure? They're so close to your beautiful rug,” Aramis said, pointedly. The feminine lilt to his voice had faded.

“Oh that old thing? I've had it for years,” Porthos said, dismissively.

“But it's so well taken care of,” Aramis said in a tight voice. “It would be such a shame to risk it, wouldn't it? Don't you think? Porthos?”

Porthos drew back and smirked at Aramis who raised an eyebrow in return. He got to his feet, bent down to pick the offending items up and quickly replaced them in the small kitchen. As Porthos crossed the rug on his way back, Aramis began to fan himself dramatically.

“Goodness!” he exclaimed. “I'm so warm from that wine, Monsieur. I might have a fever.”

Porthos sat on the sofa and dramatically slid up the sofa to press his leg firmly against Aramis'. He lay his arm on the back of the sofa again, his other hand held against Aramis' forehead.

“You are,” Porthos said quietly. “Maybe you're unwell.”

“Perhaps I should take my leave,” Aramis suggested without any real conviction.

“Stay,” Porthos argued gently, moving his hand down to hold both of Aramis' where they were clasped in his lap. “I can take care of you.”

“You won't take advantage of me?” Aramis asked, just a hint of innuendo in his eyes.

“I'm a King's Musketeer,” Porthos said solemnly, his eyes roving over Aramis' body.

“I've heard things about the Musketeers,” Aramis said, pretending to grow fainter.

“Oh?”

“It is said they are... They...” Aramis trailed off. Porthos was fairly certain he was trying to blush but it wasn't working.

“Mmm?” Porthos asked, the hand on the back of the sofa stroking Aramis' neck lightly.

“It is said you are the greatest kissers in all of France,” Aramis whispered.

Porthos leaned in and, again, began to nuzzle at Aramis' ear, his thumb stroking wide circles on the back of Aramis' hand.

“Do you agree?” he breathed.

“I'm not sure I could accurately assess based on that one kiss you gave,” Aramis murmured.

“Would you like a better example?”

“Oh yes,” Aramis sighed.

Porthos leaned in and kissed Aramis again, still gently. Their lips parted slightly this time, moving together as Porthos' hand gently cradled the back of Aramis' head.

“Wait. Stop. Porthos, stop,” Aramis gasped, pushing him back.

“Sorry, love. Sorry,” Porthos muttered, immediately withdrawing and searching Aramis' face in concern.

“No, no. It's not that, mi vida. It's... I want this moment to be just us,” Aramis said shyly.

Porthos' face relaxed into a broad smile and he reached out to stroke Aramis' face.

“Bed,” Aramis announced, grinning.

Porthos nodded and then, in one smooth motion, stood and lifted Aramis over his shoulder.

“Porthos!” exclaimed Aramis, laughing wildly.

“You're too slow,” Porthos said, shrugging as he strode across the room.

“Do you remember what happened last time I was in this position?” Aramis asked, resting his hand on Porthos' buttocks.

“Mind's gone blank,” Porthos said, reaching their bedroom door.

“Should I remind you?” laughed Aramis, smacking his hand down loud enough to make Porthos stumble.

“Oi! I'm still bruised y'know,” Porthos complained, laughing as well. “Do you want me to drop you?”

Aramis was still laughing when Porthos dumped him unceremoniously on the bed on his back. Porthos quickly disrobed, their laughter fading into grins as, once fully nude, Porthos slipped to his knees. Aramis tugged off his shirt and threw it vaguely in the direction of the chair at the end of their bed. He blew Porthos a kiss when the kneeling man raised an eyebrow in mock annoyance as the shirt landed on the floor.

Aramis' hands were perfectly steady when they unlaced his breeches and there was only a small hesitation when he unlaced his braies. He smiled at Porthos who was watching him calmly before shyly lifting his bottom up enough to pull them both down over his hips.

Another eyebrow raise from Porthos was the response to the breeches and braies hitting the floor as well when Aramis threw them in the corner.

“You like tidying,” Aramis said airily.

“I like the house **being** tidy,” Porthos corrected.

“Oh hush,” Aramis chuckled and beckoned him closer.

Porthos obediently shuffled forwards on his knees, following Aramis' pointed directions until he was directly between his legs.

“You sure, love?” he asked.

“I am,” Aramis said quietly. “Hands behind your back, please.”

Porthos complied and his eyes were drawn to Aramis' hand, lightly massaging his own mostly soft member. It took more time than usual but less time than Porthos expected for Aramis to grow hard. His eyes were fixed on the motion of Aramis' hand and he couldn't stop himself growing hard at the sight.

“Want me?” Aramis asked.

While Porthos was fairly certain he had intended the question to be teasing, he knew Aramis well enough to discern genuine uncertainty. He tore his eyes away from Aramis' groin and up to his face.

“So much,” he answered, his voice low. “Always want you.”

Aramis beamed down at him and gently stroked Porthos' hair with his free hand. He drew Porthos forwards until his mouth was less than an inch from the tip of his cock. He shivered with arousal when Porthos' mouth opened of its own accord, eager to taste him.

“Sire,” Porthos groaned.

“No hands,” Aramis said, releasing both Porthos and his own member.

Porthos hummed his agreement before gently licking one long stripe along the underside of Aramis' length.

“Not so light,” Aramis said quietly, struggling to keep his focus.

There was tremor of fear in Aramis' voice so Porthos repeated the motion, much harder, and was rewarded with a low moan. He smiled to himself and did it again and again until Aramis bucked his hips impatiently.

“I am not a frozen ice,” he laughed.

Porthos grinned and obligingly raised himself up to take Aramis into his mouth. He slowly bobbed his head up and down, his lips pressed tightly around his lover. A happy sigh from above him let him know he had the pace just right and he continued to simply move up and down, flattening his tongue against the thick vein so it dragged along Aramis' shaft as he moved.

“Porthos,” he sighed happily, burying the fingers of one hand in his lover's thick curls.

Porthos hummed in reply as he felt Aramis' entire body relax under his consistent movements. The languid rhythm seemed to be soothing Aramis while Porthos just delighted in the service of it. The feeling of being on his knees, Aramis' legs either side of him, his long cock warm and hard against his tongue... Porthos groaned happily.

“OK, my boy,” Aramis said, releasing Porthos' hair and laying back on the bed. “Get on with it.”

Porthos grinned widely and shifted his weight. He raised himself up slightly and swirled his tongue around the head of Aramis' cock, suckled gently before sinking his mouth back down again. This time he meant business.

He went to town on Aramis, pulling out every trick he knew. In less than five minutes he had Aramis fisting the sheets, moaning loudly every time Porthos took him into his throat. By the time Aramis finally sat up and pulled Porthos none too gently off his length by the hair, Porthos was a drooling mess, his own cock painfully hard and his eyes dark with lust.

“Fuck,” Aramis said, breathlessly.

Porthos licked his lips obscenely and Aramis moaned before leaning down and kissing him harshly. Porthos groaned into their tightly pressed together lips as Aramis' tongue was pushed possessively into his mouth, claiming him.

“Up here,” Aramis gasped, patting the bed.

As Porthos obeyed, Aramis shifted onto his back and gently guided Porthos to kneel astride his hips. He replaced Porthos' hands at the small of his back.

“I'm doing all the work, huh?” Porthos asked, grinning down at Aramis.

“I'm an injured man,” Aramis said, lifting an eyebrow.

Porthos laughed and grinned down at his lover.

“Do you think can take me with just oil?” Aramis asked, tilting his head slightly.

Porthos considered the question. He knew Aramis meant without injury or lasting pain and while he could have physically done it, not in the way Aramis would have wanted.

“Probably not in this position,” Porthos admitted after a short pause.

“No problem,” Aramis said, smiling. He reached sideways for the bottle of oil they kept beside the bed and beckoned Porthos forwards until he could reach between his cheeks to press gently at his entrance with his fingers.

“Why'd you ask?” Porthos asked, his still hard member throbbing in the air between them at the feeling of Aramis' talented digits.

Aramis smiled up at Porthos who was still obediently holding his hands behind him. He slicked up two fingers and pressed them into Porthos without hesitating. Porthos groaned deeply at the feeling. His muscles protested at the sudden intrusion and the delicious burn spread through him.

“I'd like it to hurt you a bit,” Aramis answered, watching Porthos' face contract.

“Yes Sire,” he groaned, pressing back against his fingers.

“Ride them,” Aramis said, softly.

Porthos groaned again and obediently began to rise and fall on the digits, luxuriating in the warmth spreading out as the muscles burned. It was only a couple of minutes later that he felt the burn fading and he opened his eyes to nod down at Aramis.

“Good boy,” Aramis purred.

“It'll still hurt,” Porthos said, wincing slightly as the fingers withdrew.

“Do you mind?” Aramis asked, tilting his head.

A wicked grin spread across Porthos' face as he shuffled back down the bed.

“Get on with it, then,” Aramis smirked, stroking oil along his length.

Porthos lowered himself gingerly onto Aramis' shaft, biting his lip as the ache in his muscles came alive as they were spread further apart. He paused for a moment but an amused cough from Aramis made him grit his teeth and continue to lower himself.

Only when he was fully seated did Porthos finally stop, panting hard as his muscles screamed their objection.

“OK, mi vida?” Aramis asked, gently.

“In a moment,” Porthos admitted gratefully.

Aramis reclined comfortably on the bed, luxuriating in the feel of Porthos around him. He trusted Porthos not to wait more than necessary and simply gazed adoringly up at him. His eyes raked over the muscles on his stomach, the lines of the scars on his chest, up over the broad shoulders and finally up to his face. His eyebrows were knitted in concentration and he was biting his lip again.

“Sire,” Porthos breathed, opening his eyes and looking nervously down at Aramis.

“Slowly, then.”

Porthos nodded and obediently began to ride Aramis, slowly moving himself up and down on his length. He knew Aramis well enough to know he wanted full strokes on each pass and he obliged. Locking eyes with Aramis, a soft smile came to his face as he obediently moved, high thighs shaking in protest at the slow pace.

Gradually the burn faded and Porthos began to move more smoothly, groaning more from pleasure than pain and Aramis' hands rested on his thighs, drawing his attention back to his lover's face.

“With me?” Aramis asked, his breath ragged.

“Yes Sire,” Porthos groaned, nodding.

“Faster,” he said.

Porthos nodded again and gradually sped up until a grimace of pain from Aramis made it clear he'd pulled on the man's thigh. Together they experimented with pace until they found a rhythm fast enough that they were both panting with pleasure but neither one was in pain any more.

As they settled, their eyes found each other again and neither man could look away as the pleasure built. Aramis didn't have a word for the feeling blooming in his chest. It was love, ownership, pride, joy, pure pleasure, all of which he recognised but there was something else bubbling under the surface. Tears pricked his eyes as he gazed up at Porthos.

“Sire?” Porthos asked, his thighs shaking as he continued to raise himself up and down, sinking again and again onto Aramis, impaling himself willingly.

“Home,” Aramis whispered.

“Home,” Porthos agreed, his body shuddering with pleasure as long fingers wrapped around his shaft, stroking suddenly, harshly, tingeing the sensation with pain.

“Not unless I say,” Aramis reminded him and Porthos nodded frantically, trying hard to keep his rhythm with Aramis stroking him so roughly.

“Sire,” he growled a few minutes later as his orgasm coiled in his belly, just waiting for release.

“Not yet,” Aramis gasped.

He was determined for them to spend together and he was far too busy enjoying the sensation of Porthos' body up and down on his own. The sight of the man, muscled and brimming with raw power but holding himself exactly as instructed was glorious. The sensation of the tight, tight ring of muscle around him was delightful and yet the touch of his skin was like velvet. There was a small rivulet of sweat tricking down the side of his face, getting lost in the curls of his beard.

Porthos' body above his was trembling, the thighs protesting at the strain and the rest just concentrating on fighting his orgasm off. Aramis could feel pleasure pooling in his stomach, the muscles in his body tightening. He twisted his hand just so on Porthos' length and felt the muscles clench around that bit tighter in surprise.

After what felt like an age of chasing his orgasm, the heat bubbled over and he finally felt a wave of pure pleasure roll through his body.

“Porthos. Porthos. Now,” he gasped as his body shuddered, emptying itself into his lover's warm body. He was dimly aware of Porthos' loud growl echoing in the room but his own loud moan filled his ears and white hot heat raced through his body.

  
  


A rough hand was against his cheek and he was suddenly aware of Porthos' voice.

“Sire? Aramis?” he panted.

“M'OK,” Aramis murmured, giggling slightly.

“Where did you go?” Porthos asked, his voice rough.

Aramis didn't reply and just giggled, waving a hand at Porthos who rolled his eyes. He gasped and his body shuddered slightly when Porthos raised himself up and cold air blew across his length. It was quickly followed by the familiar feeling of Porthos carefully and diligently cleaning them both up.

He closed his eyes as he felt Porthos moving around and drifted pleasantly as little aftershocks flowed through him. A wide smile spread his face as Porthos climbed across him and pasted himself to Aramis' side.

“Hi,” he murmured, instantly wrapping an arm around Porthos' broad shoulders.

“Hi,” echoed Porthos, nuzzling into Aramis' neck.

They lay there, both shivering slightly in the afterglow, small giggles and smiles meeting each one. When Aramis felt goosebumps raised on Porthos' arm, he finally opened his eyes and glanced at the window.

“It's getting late,” he said quietly.

Porthos mumbled something incoherent into Aramis' throat. The marksman chuckled and began to stroke his shoulder gently.

“Did you tidy my clothes away?” Aramis asked suddenly.

Porthos raised his head guiltily.

“I like tidying, Sire,” he admitted sheepishly.

Aramis laughed loudly and gestured at the blanket. Porthos obediently reached for it and pulled it over them both.

“I love you so much, Aramis,” he murmured.

Aramis smiled and kissed Porthos sweetly.

“As I love you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And fin!
> 
> I just want to say thank you to everyone who had read this, liked this, commented on this and generally stuck by me with this work, especially Lady_Neve who encouraged and continued to comment, even when I was struggling. Permit me to make a few observations :)
> 
> I started writing this when I was on holiday in the summer from a prompt emailed to me a few months previously. It grew and grew and along the lines it turned into something I wasn't quite intending. One of the lines in the prompt was "I have always seen it as a bad thing but the way you write it make it right (if you get what I mean)" regarding the Master/slave type relationship. This meant the world to me as it's something of a reality to me and I easily realise people misunderstand. This work ended up being a demonstration that not all submissive people are weak and that as long as you're with a partner that matches you, it can just as healthy as an egalitarian one.
> 
> I have had a few genuinely touching emails that let me know the message landed. That means the world to me. I write about kinky sex because I like kinky sex. I write about loving D/s relationships because my relationships are loving and based on D/s. While I don't set out to write crusading pieces that shine the light and help people gain a greater understanding of that kind of relationship, if that happens along the way, I'm thrilled.
> 
> One of the things I've always, always tried to express in my writings about these two is that Porthos submits from a place of strength, not weakness. All too often I see kinky emotions imply the submissive partner needs someone to take control because they're upset or because they're feeling weak. That's perfectly valid for people (I write my bottomy Aramis that way as an escape) I make a massive effort to express the everyday reality of a strong, willing and even eager slave. From the comments I got along the way here, I feel Porthos' insistence in this work that he *chose* Aramis and he *chose* this way of life made that eagerness perfectly clear.
> 
> A final note - Please take this as evidence, I DO get to prompts eventually. It might take me a while but if I say I'll do it, I'll do it. I love prompts and requests because, like this, they take me somewhere unintended.
> 
> Thanks again for every ounce of support you've all given me and a massive, massive thank you to Jasperslittlesister for the idea in the first place! Much love to you all,
> 
> kitti x

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback makes my fingers itchy and I write ALL THE THINGS!
> 
> Prompts and requests always welcome at kitacularao3 at gmaildotcom :)


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